Hell Bound
by IndigoUmbrella
Summary: Start by pulling him out of the fire and hoping that he will forget the smell. He was supposed to be an angel but they took him from that light and turned him into something hungry, something that forgets what his hands are for when they aren't shaking. When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it.
1. One

I couldn't breathe through the pounding of my heart. I tried to steady it by doing what I'd been taught so many years before "Count your heartbeats," my commanding officer would tell me, gently guiding my hand to my chest. "Even if you can't feel them. Put your hand over your heart and count to four over and over until it's steady."

But I couldn't move my hand now. It was busy clutching the rifle I had pressed against my chest. I could feel my sweating fingers slipping over the heavy, deadly machine. I knew that gun better than anyone. I'd spent endless hours pulling it apart and putting it back together. Learning the way it felt and the way it worked, so I'd never be caught off guard. But at that moment, I couldn't bear the weight of it in my hands. I wanted to throw it aside. I was afraid of what it could do. Of what it could make me do.

"Something's wrong," I said as I followed my commanding officer toward the sound of gunfire. Captain Russell was a broad man with dark hair and equally dark eyes. I trusted him with my life. He'd believed in me when no one else did. Gave me a family when no one else would. Ohio born just like I was. Rough around the edges and warm with compassion.

"Just follow my orders, Hayes," he responded. I could tell by his voice that he wasn't as afraid as I was. When I'd spoken, the words tumbled out of my mouth in a nervous and terrified tone. He was as steady and calm as a mountain. This was just a regular mission for him. He didn't feel like it would be his last. Not like I did.

"No, I don't mean—it's not fear. Something is wrong. Call it—intuition." He was the first person who'd ever told me to trust my gut. He claimed the brain had ways of noticing things that we otherwise wouldn't have the time to mull over. It was science, he said. Not magic. And it had gotten him out of more scrapes than he could count.

Right now my intuition was telling me that Death was nearby. I didn't know if it was me or him or someone else. Shots had already been fired so the feelings might be natural. But it felt like more than that. A nagging in my brain. Like a dark little creature burrowing at the base of my skull. As if unfriendly eyes were tracking me as I followed my Captain through empty alleyways.

He turned back around to face me, hearing the urgency in my voice. The rest of our team had scattered as soon as the first gun fired. He told me to stick with him, and we'd snaked through alleyways in silence as the sound of battle grew louder and more violent. Now he turned his dark eyes to mine. They were almost black usually, but with the midsummer sun shining on his face, I could see the rich brown color.

"What is it?" he asked. My fingers were trembling. I'd never had a problem with that before. We'd been on other missions together. Some more dangerous than others. Sure, people didn't usually die, but it was always a risk. This mission was obviously more serious than I was accustomed to, but the situation wasn't entirely new. I'd been doing this long enough to not tremble at the sound of rifle fire.

"My ears are ringing," I told him, speaking the only words that I could form at that moment. My gun was rattling in my hands. I could hear it tapping against the metal on my chest as my hands shook. "It feels like—something—is bouncing around inside my skull. I can't breathe." He reached out and put a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"You're just scared, Hayes. You'll be fine. We're all going to be okay. I'll do whatever I can to make sure we get out of this, alright?" I shook my head. He wasn't getting it. The feeling was unnatural. Like the sound of a breath in a dark room when you think you're alone.

"I'm not saying figuratively. I've been scared before. This is different. This isn't fear—this is—something more."

Even if I could explain it in a way that made sense to him, he seemed too distracted to understand me. Of course he would blame it on fear. I was the smallest and physically weakest in our squad. The only girl in a group full of rough and burly men. It was the whole reason he'd asked me to stay with him instead of sticking to the formation. I was a liability that needed a babysitter.

My skin was crawling. The hair on the back of my neck was standing on end. There was something in the air I'd never felt before. Like an electric charge right before lightning struck. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and my fingers weren't shaking from fear. They were trembling as I fought the urge to point the gun to the center of his forehead and pull the trigger. As soon as I realized what the problem was, my weapon lifted and pressed against his chest.

My breathing had gone ragged like I'd just run a marathon. He was armored, and the bullet wouldn't kill him, but at this close of a range, it would definitely knock him out. Maybe break a few ribs. I could hurt him, and I didn't think I really wanted to. But I couldn't stop myself as my finger slipped over the trigger. I shook as I told myself not to do it.

"What are you doing, Hayes?" he asked, suddenly no longer distracted. I looked toward his face, desperate for an explanation. I hadn't asked my hands to move. I was asking them to move away. They weren't responding.

"There's something wrong with me," I told him.

I almost pulled the trigger. And if I'd been given a few more seconds, I probably would have. But I heard footsteps pounding on the cobblestones behind me.

"Captain? Captain!" a voice was saying. The voice of my friend. He couldn't see what I was doing yet, and he'd never get the chance. Before I could stop myself, I spun around and pulled the trigger.

I watched the light leave his eyes the moment I did it. His body dropped to the stones with a sickening thud. I heard a bomb ignite a street away. The foundation beneath my feet shook, and I lost my balance.

"Hayes, give me the gun!" Captain Russell shouted over the sound of falling debris. I couldn't do it. I'd never meant to kill Tran. He was my friend. His wife had just given birth to twin boys. I'd never wanted to kill anyone. I didn't know why I did it, but I couldn't risk doing the same thing to Russell. I had to get away before I could hurt anyone else. So I clutched the gun to my chest and took off at a run down the alley.

"Johanna," I heard.

But it wasn't Russell's voice this time. It was somewhere else. Somewhere closer. I blinked and brought myself back to the present. I was no longer on the battlefield. No longer murdering my friends. I turned to the woman seated on the chair before me. She was smartly dressed, in a comfortable (if clinical) office. It was still difficult for me to trust her. The last time I'd put my faith in someone like her, they'd been someone else entirely.

"Where are you?" she asked, knowing I was miles away even while in the same room.

I looked back down at my fingers in my lap. They were no longer trembling, but I could still feel the memory. The way the gun vibrated through my bones as it fired. The spray of blood on my face as I shot one of my closest friends in the face.

"I don't know," I told her. I was being honest. I recognized the memory, but couldn't name the place. She gave me a soft, if slightly condescending, smile anyway. Her office was flooded with warm yellow light, despite how cold and gray the city looked through the windows. It was always friendly and welcoming there, but I still couldn't get comfortable. There was a chemical scent in the air. Everything too clean. Carpets too hard. Metal too shiny. A doctor's office disguised as a friend's living room.

"I know it's going to take you some time to develop trust with me," she said, stating the obvious, but acknowledging my discomfort. "I know you still feel betrayed by what your last doctor did to you. I don't expect us to build trust overnight, but you are paying me a lot of money to sit here with you. You might as well make that worth it." I nodded slowly and picked at my fingernails. "We can talk about anything you want," she suggested.

I'd been back in DC for a total of one week. My sister Clara had only let me out of her sight under the strict demand that I immediately set up an appointment to see a therapist. Of course, the last time I'd seen a therapist, it turned out she was working for HYDRA and feeding all of my personal and most intimate thoughts to them. But this woman worked for the Veterans Hospital, and Clara, Tony, and even Sam said there was a slim chance she'd betray me. I still couldn't get myself to open up to her.

"I used to have dreams a lot," I finally admitted. Pushing through some last mental defense just to get the words out. I focused on my fingernails so she couldn't stare at me. I hated when they stared too long. Like they were reading something I didn't know I was showing. "About that day. When everything went wrong. I could see the little girl who died in my arms. My friends. Colonel Talbot taking a shot to the leg." I shook my head. "I still have the dreams. But something's different. I see things I don't remember seeing before. Instead of watching them die—I kill them myself…." I tapered off, and she waited for me to continue. When I didn't, she took a deep breath.

"You see yourself as responsible for the deaths of your squad?" she questioned. I nodded. "That sounds like survivor's guilt to me, Johanna. It's a normal response to an event like this. You blame yourself on a subconscious level. It's manifesting as visions and dreams of you killing your friends." I nodded again, slowly.

"It feels so real, though," I explained. "I feel the sun, sweat, the fear."

"Of course it feels real while you're experiencing it. The same way that a vivid dream feels real while you're dreaming. It's only when you wake up and remember all the unusual or extraordinary things that you realize it can't be true. But what you see in your nightmares seems plausible to you in a waking state. Maybe there are no monsters or bleeding walls. So you determined that it must be real. But they're still just dreams created by your subconscious. You can't dream memories. Not really. Not accurately." I didn't believe that.

"This is healthy, Johanna," she said after another long pause. "Dreams are our way of making sense of our waking life. Of sorting out information and feelings. Your mind is trying to make sense of what happened. You told me that you've had recurring dreams about this event before. That was your mind refusing to let it go. The dreams are changing because you're working through something new. The guilt you refuse to acknowledge in your waking state. It's progress."

"I know. It's just—with everything that's happened this year—sometimes I'm afraid that it might actually be real. What if I really did kill them?"

"There would be a record of that, wouldn't there? I don't know how it correlates to what happened earlier this year. We've only discussed your time in the military. And only very briefly." I pinched my lips shut, my mental defenses locking back into place. "You're not ready to discuss it yet. I understand. But I am here when you're willing to talk. In the meantime, we can talk about anything you want. Tell me about your house. How are you handling the move back home?" I shrugged my shoulders. The fresher wound jolted with pain.

"Fine, I guess," I told her. "Stark had everything taken care of. I hardly had to do anything myself. Feels almost back to normal now. I'm just not sure if I really wanted it or if I was just desperate to get away from my sister."

"Do you and your sister not get along?"

"We get along great. We just have different lives and goals. I didn't want to drive a wedge between her and Stark. I want to be my own person."

"And you're staring your new job today, aren't you? Are you excited about that?" I shook my head and then laughed. I turned my attention back to the window where I could see the newly rebuilt parking garage. Most of it had to be reconstructed after a bomb took out part of the roof. And destroyed my car. The rest of DC seemed calm, windy, and gray.

"I don't think I'm ready for it, to be honest," I admitted. "I don't feel like I'm cut out for this line of work."

"Why not?"

"It's more your thing, don't you think? I have no real training. No experience."

"No. But you understand. That's more than most people can give."

"But how can I help them get their lives back together if I don't even know how to do it for myself?"

"Maybe you shouldn't look at it that way," she suggested. "Look at this as a chance to help yourself as well as them. Sometimes just being near someone who understands your trauma is enough to help you move past it." That sounded uncomfortably familiar. That, I at least, understood perfectly well.

"I had that once. Or at least, I thought I did. It didn't turn out so well for me."

"What happened?" I'd led myself right into a trap. I took a deep breath and let it go slowly.

"He shot me." She nodded.

"Are you ready to tell me about it yet?"

"No."

"When you are…."

"I should probably get going actually. I still need time to set up before everyone arrives."

"Of course. And I'll see you on Thursday?"

"Yeah, I'll be here." She nodded and followed me back out into the waiting room. Even though our session was over prematurely, she put a comforting hand on my shoulder and offered me that kind and professionally trained smile.

"It isn't real, Johanna," she told me. "I know it feels real, but it isn't. You can't trust your subconscious to be accurate. And if you need my help, even in the middle of the night, call me. I can't guarantee I'll always answer. But leave a message. I'm always here for you." I nodded.

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

"And I can't wait to hear more about your first day of work." I smiled awkwardly and pulled away from her. I headed out of her office without another word.

* * *

*Cut to me sobbing because I finally have a completed story for you guys*

Okay, basic rundown for those who aren't in the "know." I started this sequel right after the first one finished, shortly after Captain America: The Winter Soldier came out. AND I COULD NOT FUCKING FINISH IT. I scrapped it and rewrote it several different times but couldn't get it right, never completed it. I started forcing myself to write, I forced myself to fit my story into a specific outline. And it suffered. People liked it, but I didn't. So after having 30 something chapters published, I said "To hell with it," and scrapped it again.

I am still really sorry for that.

I decided to completely scrap my outline and my original idea and allow the story to build naturally and with less constraints. It fucking worked. I finished it last night and now I can focus on the editing and updating. I am so thrilled.

I'm not sure if it's going to be better than the last one. But it's better for me. And I think it's going to be obvious that I enjoyed writing it a lot more. It's less forced. The events and the relationships build more naturally. So even though it's not the same story, I think it turned out better. Plus, it's totally not going to end here and after Civil War comes out I'm going to continue it. So I'm excited!

I also didn't expect to finish it so quickly, but here we are! This is what happens when you don't force yourself and don't give yourself a deadline. Hahaha.

So I'll try to get an update out daily or every few days. It just depends on how quickly I get the chapters edited. Also, I do plan on making a different banner at some point, but I'm at a bit of a loss for that one right now. So that could change. Everything else is ready to go! And I hope you guys like it!


	2. Chapter 2

Even though I'd spent a great deal of time at the VA hospital, the building I now called "work" was all but unfamiliar to me. I had been there once before when I came to see Sam the day that HYDRA decided to blow up my car.

I walked through the front doors, balancing a heavy box on my hip. There was a girl behind the reception desk in nursing scrubs, though I wasn't entirely sure if she was really a nurse. I remembered seeing her in the exact same spot the day I visited Sam. But I only remembered her because she brought us coffee as we waited for the firemen to finish soaking my car. Sam made a joke about she was never going to go out with him now that she knew his friends had a habit of getting things blown up. I almost felt guilty that I'd taken his job, as well as his chance for a date.

"Hi," she said when I approached the desk. She was a cute short girl with her dark curly hair tucked out of her face. Her scrubs had little pink cartoon characters on them.

"Hi, um—I'm Sam Wilson's replacement. We spoke on the phone a couple of days ago. I can't really remember where I'm supposed to go." Her eyes immediately lit up, and she jumped to her feet.

"Oh, right! They told me you'd be in today. We're really happy to finally have someone more permanent fill in for him. It's been so chaotic having new speakers every few weeks. It's hard to get comfortable with faces when they change so often. C'mon. I'll show you where to go." She came around the side of the desk and started down the hall. I shuffled to keep up with her. "My name is Deanna," she told me once I reached her side. "Are you a friend of Sam's? He put in the suggestion, didn't he?"

"Uh, yeah. We're pretty good friends. I just moved back to DC, and he asked me to fill while he's in New York."

"I think I remember seeing you here before. When the parking garage blew up. I can't remember your name, though. They just told me you were 'Corporal Hays."

"Oh, sorry. It's Johanna."

"That's right! I remember now. Everyone is really looking forward to meeting you. It's important for them to develop personal bonds with the speakers. Sam was the best we ever had. Everyone really loved him." There was a hint of sadness in her tone that made me think Sam's feelings for her were probably reciprocated.

"Well, I hope it works out and I can stick around for a while." That was a lie, but what I really meant was that I hoped no one blew up my car so that I'd have to leave involuntarily. She finally stopped in the hallway where I recognized my surroundings. Then she turned around to face me with her sweet, bubbly smile.

"I sure hope so. It's right through this door. I think Graham is already waiting for you. He likes to come in early. It's kind of tranquil when no one is here. Let me know if you need any help getting set up."

"I will. Thank you."

"And it was nice meeting you again."

"You too."

She walked back down the hall to return to her post at the front desk. The doors were already open, and sunlight spilled into the room through tall windows on the other side. The space was open and empty except for a young man sitting in a single metal chair beneath a window. He had a book propped up on his lap and didn't seem to notice me walk in.

I didn't want to disturb him, so I headed toward the stacks of folding chairs and tables and sat the box down on the floor. Sam told me he liked to bring snacks. It made everyone feel more at home and relaxed, even though he paid for it out of pocket. I decided to follow his lead and brought cookies and my coffee maker. But when I set the box down, everything inside shifted loudly.

"Crap on a stick," the kid behind me said. "I didn't even see you." I stood back up as he bent down to get the book he'd dropped when I scared him. He was young. So young, in fact, that I had a hard time believing he was military. They seemed to get younger and younger every year. But he stood and his shoulders were set so straight that it was evident he hadn't been home for very long.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to bother you," I explained.

"No need to apologize, ma'am. My name is Officer McGuire." Then he brought his hand to his head as if he was going to salute me. I quickly waved for him to stop.

"Please don't do that." His shoulders relaxed, and he slumped.

"Sorry. It's a reflex."

"It's alright. It takes a while to go away. But I'm only a Corporal so there's no need anyway." I turned to reach for one of the folding tables that had been set against the wall.

"Still my superior," he said as he rushed over to take the other side of the table. I was actually grateful for his help since just lifting the stupid thing caused both my shoulders to hurt.

"Not here. And thanks."

"Not a problem, ma'am. Looks like they got your arms," he nodded in my direction.

"Shoulders. Both of them. What about you?"

"Knee." I shook my head and reached down to yank one of the table legs out, though it didn't give easily.

"The joints are awful."

"I guess it's better than losing a limb. I had a couple of buddies who lost limbs."

"Yeah, I know someone who lost a limb too."

"Could be worse. Could be dead."

"Mm—or frozen for seventy years." He noticed I was still struggling to get the table leg out and reached out to pop it into place.

"Was that a Captain America joke?"

"More of an observation really." We stood back up, and he ended up being the one to push the table against the wall.

"Do you need any help setting up?"

I looked around the room at the large stacks of folding chairs. Then I sighed heavily and dropped my hands to my side. I wanted to say no, but the idea of unfolding each and every one of them didn't appeal to me. I also got the feeling that he wasn't the kind of person who would sit there and watch me do it by myself. So I reluctantly nodded.

"Would you mind helping me set the chairs up while I finish with the table?" I asked.

"Yes, ma'am. I can do that." He limped off to the stacks of chairs and began assembling them. I pulled the coffee maker out of the box.

"And you don't have to keep calling me 'ma'am.' Actually, I'd prefer it if you didn't. Johanna is fine. Jo, even."

"Sorry."

"What's your full name?"

"Graham McGuire." I shook my head.

"That's uh…"

"Ridiculous, I know. But you want to know what's even worse? My dad's name was Fergus. What kind of name is that anyway? We're not even Scottish. Apparently, some great-great grandparent bought a farm once called McGuire farm and my family just kept the name. How stupid is that?" I couldn't help but laugh at his expression. Like it was the most obnoxious thing he'd ever heard. He apparently thought about it in depth.

"Do you mind if I just stick with calling you Graham?"

"Please do, ma—sorry. Again." I smiled.

"It's alright. You'll get the hang of it."

The room fell silent as I set up the coffee maker and he assembled chairs. The only sounds came from his feet tapping on the floor and the crunch of metal every time he got one unfolded. Once I got the coffee going and set out the cookies, I went to help him with the rest of them.

I felt guilty for asking him to help me as I watched him limp around the room, but he made no complaints or gave any indication that he was in pain. He seemed so small and boyish even though he was so tall. I hated that the military had darkened him. I could see that in the circles under his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks.

"So—what were you reading?" I asked as I worked.

"Oh, Tolkien," he explained. "The Silmarillion actually. It's not my first time reading it."

"So you're into fantasy?"

"I guess so. I suppose I just like the way everything works out in the end. War leaves a mark, but life goes on. You know Tolkien was a soldier? You can kind of tell by the way he writes. I think that's why I like it so much. He knew what he was talking about, and it wasn't like a heroic triumph. His heroes still suffered, but in the end, good always prevails anyway." I nodded slowly.

"Yeah, I guess I can see the appeal."

"What about you? What kind of books do you like to read?" I shook my head and reached for the last chair.

"I honestly can't remember the last time I read a book," I told him.

"Really? I always find it weird when I meet people who don't like to read." He took the chair from me and limped to the back row. I lingered at the snack table.

"It's not that I don't like to read," I told him. "I used to love reading. Read all the time when I was younger."

"What happened?" he asked since I failed to elaborate. I took a moment to answer as I fiddled with the cookie display.

"I got shot," I told him. Of course the wound itself didn't cause the change, but I knew he would understand what I meant.

"When I got home—reading was the only thing that made me not want to jump off a building. Well—and these meetings."

My heart dropped. He was busy fixing the chairs and didn't seem to notice the now horribly concerned look on my face. I didn't want to fail this kid. I didn't want to be so terrible at this job that his life depended on me, and I failed him. But I took a deep breath and turned back toward the cookies to rearrange them again.

"It takes time," I told him.

"How long did it take for you?" I hesitated. I could hear him limp up beside me, and I searched my brain for something motivational to tell him. But I couldn't lie. He would be able to tell. They always could.

"Still working on it," I admitted. He shrugged.

"Well, maybe you just need to find something that makes you happy. Reading makes me happy. Maybe this job will do that for you. Helping people." I nodded and smiled.

"I really hope so." I checked my phone for the time and then examined the room to make sure it was perfect. "Would you mind helping me with the podium?"

"Sure. Not a problem."

He went right to the big heavy wooden thing, and we each took a side. He seemed to realize that trying to push it was causing me pain and took up most of the work without asking. I hated when people did things like that for me. Tony was especially guilty of doing things for me when I didn't ask. It didn't bother me as much when this kid did it. It seemed more a matter of politeness. And it wasn't that Tony wasn't polite. Just that Tony was Tony. This kid did it the same way Steve would get things off of higher shelves for me so that I didn't have to suffer the shame of asking for help. He did it absentmindedly and not because I was weaker, but because I was shorter. A fact, not a vulnerability.

"So do you know Sam? The guy who did this before you?" he asked as we slid the podium into place at the head of the room.

"Yeah, I know Sam. He's my friend actually."

"Is it true that he went to work for Captain America?" I almost tripped over my feet. "You think he's really the Falcon?"

"Uh…"

"You don't have to tell me if it's classified." He stepped back and put his hands up. I just laughed and tapped my fingers on the podium.

"Well, I don't really think it's classified anymore. Not if Sam was the only one who knew how to use the Falcon technology."

"So it's true then? He gets to party with the Avengers?" I laughed.

"Um—well—I don't know if he really gets to hang out with them. I just know that he's helping Steve—Captain America—with something that's classified."

"So have you met Captain America?"

God, this kid asked a lot of questions. I wasn't even sure if I was allowed to answer them. But I had a decent idea about what they wanted secret and what they didn't care about. Steve had never been entirely clear, but it wasn't too hard to grasp.

"I've met him," I confirmed. Then I turned back toward the table to shut off the coffee maker. The whole room smelled like coffee now, and I was dying for a cup. Or just a distraction.

"What's he like?" he asked as he chased after me.

"Um—well—he's been through a lot. You can kind of tell. But he's really nice. His moral compass seems pointed in the right direction. He's almost loyal to a fault. Not as big up close."

"Are you friends? You called him by name."

"We worked together once. On a mission. I used to work for SHIELD." I poured myself a small cup of coffee and noticed that his expression had darkened from the corner of my eye. So I immediately felt the need to defend myself. "I didn't know," I assured him. "I never worked for them."

"Oh, I didn't think you did. Otherwise, you'd be in prison, right? But—it kind of caught me off guard. You seem too nice." I really had to laugh at that. A full snort.

"I wasn't a field agent. I sat at a desk and filed paperwork. Nothing fancy or scary. Boring office work."

"But you did a mission with Captain America." He had me there.

"That was different. It was for personal reasons."

"Were you there when all that stuff happened?" I nodded and took a sip. The coffee was too hot to drink, but I needed something to focus my attention on so I didn't have to look at him.

"Yeah, I was there."

"That must have been terrifying."

"I got out before any of the big stuff happened. Besides—we both know I've seen worse." He didn't answer, but I saw him nod to agree.

* * *

Writing this kid gives me more joy than writing for Tony.

Also, every other version of this story started with Jo going to New York to stay with Stark. I decided to try something completely different this time. Something that would give me fresher ideas. And sending her back to DC seemed like the best way to do that. Even though the last story ended with her wanting to track Bucky down.


	3. Chapter 3

My first meeting was a success. Or at least, I felt like it was. Everyone seemed happy to see me even though I had no idea what I was doing or how to start. They did, though, and it got underway fairly quickly. I didn't really need to do anything other than keep conversations alive and prevent people from taking over or hogging all the attention. I could see why it would make Sam happy. And although I didn't think I'd ever be as good or as loved as he was, it was definitely a better use of my time.

The kid, Graham, never spoke. He sat at the back of the room listening to everyone else talk and even stuck around for my second meeting. Occasionally he would crack a joke or a smile, but he didn't seem to want to share his experiences. I couldn't blame him for that. I didn't want to share either. But the great thing about the meetings was that no one pushed you if you weren't ready to talk. Everyone was just there to support one another and also maybe for the free coffee and cookies.

When the last meeting finished up and the crowd dissipated, Graham stayed behind to help me put the chairs and tables away. Then he walked me back out to the parking garage, lugging my heavy box in his hands instead of allowing me to hold it. I told him numerous times that I didn't need his help with it, but he said he couldn't stand there and watch me struggle with something that was too big for my "tiny baby arms." I couldn't argue with that logic. I'd rather the excuse be that my arms were too small and not because my shoulders were too weak.

But once I got home, I found my life to be boringly empty. I'd only been home for a short period of time and I felt more alone than I ever had before. I used to find a peace in my house. But I also worked so often that I was rarely there. I was an introvert and too much interaction wore me out. But that didn't mean I wasn't lonely. Bucky and Steve had only been in my life for a short period of time, and now I wasn't sure if things could ever go back to the way they were. I wasn't even sure if I wanted them to.

I was only supposed to have meetings three days a week and twice a day. I had different groups for each meeting and I wasn't sure what I was going to do with all that free time. Sam had a second job to supply extra income and keep him busy, but Sam was also just genuinely better at not burning out.

When I got to work the next day, Deanna was sitting behind the desk again. She gave me the same offer for help, but I declined and we talked about Sam for a minute before she let me go. I was almost shocked to find Graham in the exact same spot I'd found him in the day before. I stepped into the room and there he was sitting under the window with his book.

"Oh, hi," I said as I carried the box over to the table. "I wasn't expecting to see you until next week." He stood up, but refrained from saluting me. Thankfully.

"I don't have a lot to do during the day at the moment," he explained. Then he walked over to me and began to assemble the table.

"You don't have to help me." He gave me a cold stare with steel gray eyes that were still wide and youthful.

"You have two healthy knees and I have two healthy shoulders. Between the two of us, we make one healthy person." I laughed and shook my head.

"I guess I can't argue with that."

"Right. So you be my knees and I'll be your shoulders." I just nodded and shook my head.

"Alright, I guess."

He seemed much more talkative as he helped me get the room set up. He told me all about his book and how it explained stuff that was left out of the other books and movies. How things made more sense when you understood the mythology of the cultures in the story. I'd never read it before, but I liked hearing him talk about it. It was almost like reading anyway since he seemed to realize he'd caught my interest and decided to walk me through the first chapter.

But once we had everything set up and we stood back waiting for guests to arrive, I decided to ask him about why he was so silent the day before.

"So how come you don't like to talk?" I questioned. "You said the meetings help you but you were so quiet yesterday." He chewed on his lip and shook his head as he looked around the room. He was taller than me by half a foot and had a thick head of messy brown hair. But he was stringy like a beanpole, and I was pretty sure I could probably knock the wind out of him if I just elbowed him a little too hard.

"It helps me know that I'm not alone, you know? I don't really like to talk about it. Sometimes I do, if it comes up, but—most people here already know and listening helps me more than talking. I guess I don't really want to take the spotlight off of someone who might have it worse." I nodded slowly. "What about you? You didn't talk much either."

"My job is to mediate. Not talk about myself."

"Sam used to tell us stories. When conversations died down, usually. We all knew what happened to him and his friend Riley. It helped us connect, I think."

"I don't really like to talk either. I think I'm better at listening." The first guest arrived through the open doors and spotted us. I waved and the little old man hobbled over to us with his cane.

"Well, you're going to have to do a lot of listening with this old man," Graham said as he went to greet the man. He clapped him on his shoulders and helped him reach me.

"Who's this?" the old man asked him. "I don't think we've met before."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I replied. Then I went to introduce myself.

Graham stayed for both meetings and then showed up again the next day. And the week after that. I began to grow accustomed to finding him in my meetings every day. He never missed one. And over the course of the first few weeks, we figured out a routine that worked for the both of us. He would help me set up the tables and chairs and walk me out to my car every afternoon, and I would bring him lunch.

Even though my life didn't feel entirely back on track, it was good to have a regular routine again. One that didn't involve me camping out on Stark's deck all day long. Even though the normal and boring thing didn't really work out for me before, at least I felt like I was doing something useful. Though, my therapist didn't think I was making much progress. Mostly because I wouldn't talk to her about anything other than dreams and my time in the military. I found myself talking to Graham more comfortably than anyone else.

But one day when I was on my way home from the grocery store, I spotted his familiar face on the side of the road as I passed a McDonalds. He was sitting on a patch of grass quietly reading under a frail looking tree. First I figured he worked at the McDonalds. But then as I was sitting there waiting for a traffic light to turn green, I realized he wasn't wearing a uniform. He wore the same basic outfit that I always saw him in. A pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt. He had a backpack tucked under his bad knee.

He was in every meeting. He showed up early. He lingered behind after everyone else left. He wore almost the same clothes every day. The only compensation he asked for in exchange for help was food, and he'd been reading the same book for weeks. It never occurred to me that he should have already finished it by now. Several times over, given how often he was reading.

There were two options. Either the kid was a setup. Or the kid wasn't doing too well.

I turned my car around on the next road and drove back to the McDonalds. He was still sitting under the thin and weak looking tree, bouncing the knee that was propped up on the raggedy backpack. He didn't even notice my car pull into the space just a few feet away from him until I honked the horn. I saw him jump and then he spotted me sitting in the driver's seat.

He was usually a very jovial kid, always eagerly waiting for me like a loyal Labrador. But for a brief moment, he looked mildly irritated to see me. He quickly masked it and walked over to my car. I rolled the window down.

"You want dinner?" I asked him.

"Oh, you don't have to do that," he replied. That wasn't really something someone would say if they were spying on me. I studied him as he stood by my car, with his dirty shirt and his backpack full of holes.

"Don't make me order you," I told him. He grinned.

"You can't. You're not authorized."

"Are you hungry? Do you want dinner or not?"

"Maybe."

"Get in the car." He came around to the other side and slid into the leather bucket of a seat.

"Wow, this is a nice car."

"Thanks. It's just a loan." I pulled out of the lot and started to drive back out onto the street when the screen in the center of the dash lit up. I groaned out loud.

"Miss Hayes, Mr. Stark is on the line," JARVIS informed me.

"Of course he is. Put him on," I told the AI.

"Who the hell is in my car?" Tony said through the speaker.

"You've got to stop doing things like that, Stark. It's really creepy."

"I told your sister I'd keep an eye on you and I think she'd want to know if you were picking up hitchhikers." I glanced at Graham, who seemed fascinated by the conversation. I figured he was starting to piece things together now. If he hadn't already.

"He's not a hitchhiker. He's my friend. A kid from the VA. Wilson knows who he is."

"I'm actually twenty-three," Graham informed me.

"Sorry," I replied.

"It's alright."

"Hey, you. Kid. What's your name?" Tony asked.

"Um—Graham McGuire, sir."

"What's your social security number?"

"Tony, you can't ask him for his social security number," I pointed out.

"I need to run a background check. Make sure he doesn't work for HYDRA."

"Jesus Christ, Tony. I'm just taking the kid to dinner. Butt out." He went silent and I immediately regretted my choice of words.

"Like on a date?" he asked after a long moment.

"No, not on a date, you dunce. I'm pretty sure that's against the rules, first of all."

"Like that's ever stopped anyone. I'm pretty sure there's a rule about dating your own PR exec too."

"You're your own boss. You're allowed to bend that rule. I'm not. Now will you mind your own business?"

"Since they tried to kill you and now apparently want you alive, I think it's perfectly reasonable for me to check the kid out. Especially if you're taking him on a date. ESPECIALLY considering the last guy you went out with put a bullet in your shoulder. And don't even get me started on the one before that." I groaned.

"Tony—I love you—You're like a brother to me and so I want you to know that I'm saying this with love. But you need to shut the hell up."

"Hey, kid. Does the VA have your information on file?"

"Um—I guess so," Graham replied.

"Good. I'll get back to you." Then he cut out and the screen went black. The car was silent for at least a full minute as Graham processed and I fumed and glared at the windshield.

"So can I ask you a question?" he started.

"Yes, that was Tony Stark."

"Holy shit, you're friends with Iron Man?"

"We're not really friends in that it wasn't by choice. He's dating my sister and I lived with them for a few months. He's a constant pain in my ass and I regret allowing him to loan me a car that can detect extra passengers."

"You lived with Iron Man?! And you're friends with Captain America? And the Falcon? Who else do you know?" I shrugged.

"I met Dr. Banner a few times." I knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment his bugged out of his head.

"HOLY SHIT YOU MET THE HULK!" Then I inwardly cursed Tony and told myself to refrain from slamming my head onto the steering wheel. I decided not to tell him I knew Romanoff too.

* * *

So the random old man and the introduction that was irrelevant to the plot was a joke suggested by the beta of the first story. He asked for a Stan Lee cameo. I thought the "I don't think we've met before," would be hilarious because she's not a real Marvel character. Hardy har.


	4. Chapter 4

The worst part of the mission wasn't the possibility of being murdered by a super-soldier with a robotic arm. It was waiting tables. Hill set up the job so I could establish a false identity at least one week before Rogers was scheduled to come to my house, and possibly bring along a trailing shadow.

Romanoff decided that my house wasn't friendly enough and sent a group of movers over first thing in the morning. I left the house as people were coming in and out with flower planters and cleaning supplies. They were already getting started on the lawn. The only time I ever mowed it was when a kid down the street offered, or the neighbors put notes on my door.

Romanoff made it clear that I was supposed to appear easy to approach. Or, as translated by me, a fairy princess. I wasn't the least bit surprised that my house didn't make the cut. I only used it as a place to store my things, sleep, and shower. Which apparently wasn't friendly or "threat-free" enough for Romanoff's standards. So by the time my first shift would end, my house would be more acceptable.

When I was in high school, I had one real job. Usually, I made extra money by helping my grandparents or going to work at my dad's garage. But when I was in junior year, and my parents weren't able to afford my prom dress, I got a job to pay for it myself. I waited tables at a pancake restaurant and hated every second.

I could feel all of that raw hatred returning when I stepped into the diner. It was supposed to be a 50's themed diner, with celebrity portraits and studies of old cars on the walls. The diner's biggest sellers were their old-fashioned malts in a variety of flavors. I hadn't heard of the place before Hill sent me the information, but I already knew I was going to dislike all the greasy food. And I was sure I was going to want to destroy the malt machine before leaving for the day.

The dining area was small, with several booths along the wall under the windows, and a bar. A girl was already standing behind the counter making a milkshake when I walked in. She was the only person in the dining area except for a man nursing a mug of coffee and a mom with a sleepy kid waiting for his early morning milkshake.

I headed back and introduced myself. The girl said her name was Marion, but she didn't have a nametag, and I forgot it quickly. She was a tall girl with short dark hair and chunky wedge sneakers. Her sweater seemed just a tad too tight for a full range of motion, and she was already bouncing from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable with her choice of footwear.

When Marion was done showing me around, she finished up the shake and took it to the excited boy in the booth. She smiled brightly. Like it wasn't early in the morning. And then returned and nodded for me to follow her into the kitchen.

I was going to be in training for only two days, and then under probation for the rest of the week. I knew how to do the job, and I didn't have much trouble getting started. I just felt miserable. I never wanted to go back to waiting tables and hated Hydra even more than I already did. My only consolation was that the double income would cover my bills. I had to remind myself of that several times during the day, just to plaster that fake smile on my face.

By the time my shift ended, everything below the waist hurt. My thighs ached, my calves, my feet, and even my knees. I used to wake up every morning at four AM just to run miles, and I decided I'd rather go back to doing that every day than having to wait on another table. My head was pounding. I wanted to go home and never come back. I hurried out of there the first chance I got.

The house already looked different when I pulled the car into the driveway. The lawn was cut to even my father's meticulous standards. There were little boxes full of blooming flowers outside of the living room window. And also a potted shrub by the door. They'd even left a welcome mat with a cheerful greeting and friendly polka dots. I stepped inside, and the scent of cleaning supplies and air fresheners washed over me, making the house feel strangely unfamiliar.

It had been cleaned from top to bottom. There were no longer cobwebs on the ceiling fans or bugs in the light fixtures. There were decorative quilts and pillows on the couch. When I went to the kitchen, I noticed a weathered patio set in the backyard. Like anyone would believe that I was the kind of person to throw backyard barbecues.

I didn't like it.

The upstairs was in much the same condition. I didn't know what reason Barnes would have for examining my bathroom, but sure enough, there was a new shower curtain with a matching set of soap dishes and rugs. My bed was made for the first time since middle school, and my closet had been cleaned of anything linking me to the military or SHIELD. Romanoff promised to put all my things in a storage facility, but I really hoped nothing happened to it.

It didn't feel like home anymore. I thought I wouldn't be bothered by it since I never spent much time there anyway. But it was still mine. Even if nothing matched and there were no pictures on the walls. At least it reflected who I was. This house didn't feel like me at all.

I sat down on the bed and took off my shoes. Despite the new, sheer curtains, the room was relatively dark. I hoped they hadn't called someone to get rid of the raccoon in the attic. I knew he was probably destroying my home and likely to put my health at risk, but I felt bad for the little guy. I didn't want him to be out on his own. The sound of his scurrying and chattering in the middle of the night was comforting. I liked the way he made the tree shake when he shot out of the house like a rocket. Which was how he got his name in the first place.

My mom always used to say that Clara was destined to be rich and never have children. Or if she did, she'd hire them a nanny. She said I was meant to be a mother. I didn't have a lot of experiences with kids. I never had any cousins, and I did love my mother. I thought other moms were great too. But motherhood wasn't where I saw myself. My own mom was a housewife who never had a real job outside of helping her husband with his business and raising two daughters. That kind of life never appealed to me.

Clara worked hard for the life she had. Even though she had everything she could ever want or need because Tony Stark had fallen head over heels for her, his business still depended on her. Stark Industries depended on her. And that was what I really wanted. To be useful or valuable beyond providing meals and doing laundry.

I joined the military to prove I could handle something bigger than what small-town Ohio had to offer. To prove to my father that my kindness and gentleness had nothing to do with a lack of strength. I worked as hard as Clara did. I gave the military all I had and took up hobbies to get me noticed by Special Forces. I thought I was destined to do something with my life. I could help people, be a doctor, make a difference, make my family proud. Then maybe someday I'd consider children and a spouse with a house. Maybe even a dog or two.

But I couldn't do it. I got my squad killed, didn't save a group of children. I couldn't even pull a trigger and avenge them when I had the chance. Now I was waiting tables at a grimy diner so that Captain America could use my house to find his friend. So that a potentially dangerous Hydra experiment didn't find me too threatening.

I sighed in defeat and leaned on the mattress. Of course they chose me. I was so non-threatening that Colonel Talbot took one look at me and knew there was no possible way Hydra could have found me useful. I was the least threatening SHIELD agent in the entire district. I wasn't destined for great things. I wasn't good enough for a dog, let alone children. I felt like a failure. And there was nothing more irritating than the feeling of being stuck.


	5. Chapter 5

Graham didn't have anything other than what was already in his backpack. So once we got our food, I took him back to my house. He seemed as fascinated by the house as he was by the car. And as soon as I got the front door opened and he spotted the bookcase, he immediately abandoned his quest to help me unload groceries. He went right to the books.

"Oh, wow," he was saying as he plucked one off of a shelf. "What is this one about?" I deposited the bags in the living room and turned back to go get the rest.

"I don't know. I've never read it. My commanding officer gave it to me the last time I saw him," I told him. Then I paused at the door. "At least I think it was the last time I saw him."

"Radical." He flipped through the pages and I headed back out to the car to empty the trunk.

When I got back he was right where I'd left him, but now fully immersed in whichever book he'd picked up next. I made it two feet toward the hall with the groceries before I stopped.

The backdoor was cracked open. My eyes moved to where a smear of blood had been left above the door's handle. Then down to the floor to follow the trail of blood that almost blended into the shadows before disappearing into the kitchen. I slowly set the bags down on the floor and slid my pink knife out of the pocket I'd made for it in the sleeve of my jacket. Then I cautiously crept down the hall to find the source of the blood.

He was seated on the kitchen floor, propped up against the counter beneath the sink, sitting in a pool of his own blood. His long legs were spread out lazily, and the entire left side of his body was crimson. He had his head leaning against the counter and his eyes closed. If he heard me come in, he didn't show it. My heart jumped in my chest.

"Bucky!" I nearly shrieked. Then I dropped my knife on the floor and rushed to his side. I fell next to him and his eyes parted just slightly. He had one of my dishtowels pressed against his stomach and I peeled it out of his hands. It was soaked through with blood and a large chunk of metal stuck out of his abdomen.

"I didn't know where else to go," he mumbled.

"What the hell happened?" I jumped over to his other side so I could keep pressure on the wound while I dug my first aid kit out from under the sink. He lifted his right hand, which was stained red with sticky blood, spread out his fingers and said one word.

"Boom."

It was evident that he'd turned his body to the side so that his left arm would take the brunt of the force. But there was blood from his head to his legs. I couldn't tell exactly what the damage was, except for the obvious bits of shrapnel and broken glass that were sticking out of his clothes and in his face. I heard footsteps hurrying down the hall and Graham ran into the doorway.

"Is everything o…" he started. But Bucky pulled his gun out of the holster at his side and pointed it right at the kid. I could tell the movement was causing him tremendous pain. He had his lip pinched between his teeth. He was breathing hard and his hand shook from the weight of the gun.

"Bucky, stop," I said, putting my hand on his arm and forcing him to lower the weapon. "He's my friend."

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Graham McGuire…" he started as he looked at me. I could already see what question he was asking. It was pointless but I answered anyway.

"Sergeant," I told him.

"Sir," he quickly added.

"He's okay, Bucky. Put the gun down. You can't shoot my friend."

I wasn't sure if he obeying my wishes or just couldn't hold the gun any longer. He dropped his hand to his side. The gun thunked against the linoleum and he went back to breathing through his teeth as he clutched at the piece of metal shrapnel lodged in his abdomen.

"Help me move him to the couch," I instructed Graham.

"We should take him to a hospital," he replied as he cautiously stepped to Bucky's other side. Bucky's hand shot up and yanked the kid's jacket. He pulled him down so hard that the kid slipped in the blood and came face-to-face with Bucky's pallid face and cold eyes.

"No hospital," he growled.

"He can't go to a hospital," I agreed. "Help me get him up."

We both took an arm and helped Bucky onto his feet. His metal hand dug into my shoulder painfully as we tried to take the weight off of his wounds. Then the two of us had to half drag him down the hall, passed the abandoned grocery bags, and helped him onto the couch. Bucky was making a lot of grunting noises, but seemed relieved once he got to lie down. I pushed Graham back out of the way, took off my now bloodied jacket, and reached for the knife strapped to Bucky's thigh. Then I ripped it into his shirt and yanked it down, exposing all of the wounds and tearing the fabric away from them.

It was much worse than I expected. The pieces of shrapnel and glass had ripped holes in his shirt, almost pinning it to his chest. His skin was pocked with them. Most of the cuts could be fixed with a pair of tweezers and some sutures, but there were a few larger pieces that might cause him to bleed out, or punctured organs or arteries. I turned back to Graham. He was standing on the other side of my coffee table, looking as sickly and pale as Bucky.

"Upstairs closet. Get some towels," I told him. He took a step back, but kept his eyes on Bucky's bloodied chest.

"How many?" he asked.

"All of them." He turned toward the stairs and disappeared. I looked back at Bucky and pressed my hand against the side of his face that wasn't bleeding. He wasn't keeping his eyes opened and it worried me. Bucky wasn't the kind of guy who let his guard down. Especially in the presence of people he technically didn't even know. "Bucky, hey. Do you know who I am?" I asked him.

"I know—that you jumped in front of Stark to protect me," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"I'm going to help you, okay? The kid is going to help me. I need you to trust us. Can you do that?"

"I don't think I have a choice."

"Good. Now try to stay awake."

I finished removing the rest of his shirt from the chunks of broken glass and metal in his skin while I waited for Graham. I heard him back on the stairs a moment later. He hurried to my side and dropped the towels in a heap on the coffee table.

"First-aid kit in the kitchen. Can you bring it to me?" I asked. His face was still pale and he looked about five seconds away from throwing up, but he gave me a quick nod.

"I really think we should take him to a hospital," he told me.

"We can't."

"Why not? Is he some kind of criminal?" I took the knife and ripped into the collar of Bucky's shirt. It was still attached except for the bits I'd shredded to expose his chest. I sliced the blade all the way down his sleeve until I could pull his arm out. Even in the faint glow of light it gleamed, shiny and metal. Graham didn't answer. He had his eyes on Bucky and a look of pure terror on his face.

"We can't go to a hospital or they'll kill him. Do you understand?" He gulped and nodded. "And I need you…" I took a deep breath. "Look—there aren't a whole lot of things in this world that I care about. This man is one of the few things that I do care about. I need to know that I can trust you. You can't tell anyone he's here. You can't tell anyone you've seen him. Not a stranger or a friend or even Stark. Please tell me that I can trust you?" He turned his eyes back to me and nodded.

"You can trust me, Johanna."

"Jo. We're friends now. You can call me Jo. And I need your help."

"First-aid kit. I'm on it." He turned around and disappeared down the hall.

"I don't trust him," I heard Bucky say. "He could be dangerous." I turned back to him and finished ripping the shirt off so that I could get a better look at every injury. Luckily, the material of his pants seemed to be thick enough so that there weren't any deep cuts or shrapnel in his legs. At least not anything that concerned me nearly as much as the one in his stomach. They were easy to pluck right out and likely didn't need any sutures.

"He's just a kid," I retorted.

"You shouldn't trust him either. They're coming for you."

"I don't know anything about that because I haven't heard from you or them in months." He pinched his eyes shut again.

"You can't tell him I'm here," he said.

"Who?"

"You know who."

"You know he's still looking for you."

"Don't tell him. Please?"

"Fine. I won't tell him. But Stark is monitoring my house. He's going to know someone's here."

"I disabled it. Temporarily. He'll figure it out in about an hour. Don't tell him either."

"I wouldn't." Graham returned to the living room with the first-aid kit and set it down next to the towels. "Okay, here's what we need to do," I told them. "I need you to hold him down while I try to remove the shrapnel."

"I'm pretty sure I won't be able to hold him down. He's like a fucking cyborg," Graham said. "He could kill me with his pinky finger."

"Well, he's not going to do that. Are you, Buck?"

Bucky decided to answer by moving his metal hand down over the largest chunk of metal in his abdomen and yanking it right out. He let out a sound that must have been from pain, almost a grunt and a smothered shout, and then tossed the metal to the floor. It clanked against the bookshelf on the other side of the room.

"Shit," I said as blood began pumping out of the wound. "You shouldn't have done that."

"You said you needed it out," he reminded me.

"I wanted it out slowly. Towel. Towel!"

Graham jumped forward and shoved one into my hand. I climbed on top of Bucky and pressed against the wound with all my weight. He let out another smothered shout and gripped my waist with both of his hands. He was pinching his eyes shut and biting into his lip so hard I was amazed he wasn't drawing blood. And I knew it must be costing him considerable effort not to crush my hipbone in his hand.

"I need to get in there to see how deep the wound is and make sure there's nothing left of the shirt or shrapnel," I told Graham. "I need the flashlight that's in the drawer under the microwave and I need you to turn on the overhead light. Just all of the lights. There should be a bottle of rubbing alcohol under the sink. I'll need that too." He bolted toward the kitchen to go find everything. "And get the lighter too! And hurry!"

"I'm trying!" I heard him call back.

"I didn't mean to bring this on you," Bucky mumbled. "I didn't know where else to go."

"It's okay. You came to the right place." He dropped his hands from my waist and his expression went slack. His head hit the arm of the couch. "Bucky, are you with me?" His eyes parted for just a moment.

"I'm fine. Never been better in my entire life."

Graham ran back into the room, balancing everything in his hands. He dropped them onto the table beside me and I reached for what I would need as he scrambled to get all the lights on.

"Okay, here's what we're going to do," I started. "I need you to hold the flashlight behind me. Try to shine it directly into the wound once I expose it and pull the skin back. Can you do that?"

"Oh shit, dude. I don't know. I think I'm going to be sick. Or have a panic attack."

"Can you hold off?"

"I'll try."

"I think there might be too much blood for me to get a good enough look so I might have to do some digging. I'm going to need the both of you to stay conscious. I'll need you to hand me supplies as I ask for them. Can you do that for me?" Graham nodded quickly and gulped.

"I'll do it. I can do it," he assured me. Or maybe he was just trying to reassure himself.

"Bucky, I need you to stay as still as possible, okay?" I turned back to him. He didn't answer. His eyes were closed again. I leaned forward to check his pulse. His heartbeat was slow, but steady. "Buck? Bucky?" I tapped on his cheek with my hand. "Bucky? Baby, wake up." His eyes opened and he lifted his hand up to slide the pad of his thumb over my cheekbone. I could feel it leave behind a smear of sticky blood on my skin.

"Be still. I got it. Easy job," he mumbled.

"And try to stay awake."

"Mm." He shut his eyes and dropped his hand. I took a deep breath and turned toward Graham.

"Are you ready for this?" I asked him.

"Shit no," he said with a shake of his head.

* * *

I've been excited for this chapter because BUCKY DOESN'T TAKE HIS SWEET ASS (it really is a sweet ass) TIME COMING INTO THIS STORY THIS TIME.

But ouch, I blew him up. :/


	6. Chapter 6

I managed to slow most of the bleeding and got the wound sutured before I could move onto the other ones. Bucky had fallen unconscious before I finished. I knew this because he only made pained noises for the first five minutes before going completely silent. I wanted him to stay conscious but neither of us could get him to respond and if being jabbed with a needle wasn't working, I didn't know what else would. Besides, it might be better for him to be unconscious while I dug through a hole in his stomach with a pair of long metal tweezers.

He had one other large piece of glass in his chest just below the area where his skin was fused with metal. I was afraid to dig it out, just in case it affected his arm, but it didn't end up very deep at all. The bleeding was minimal compared to the one in his stomach. The rest of them were easier after that. The glass or chunks of metal and rocks were smaller and only required a few sutures here and there. Graham stayed by my side, offering towels and holding the flashlight as I instructed. And I spent a good hour picking out every piece that I could find. The ones on his head hadn't been very deep, thankfully, but head wounds tended to bleed a lot. And I took a long time sorting through his tangled brown hair to make sure they hadn't fractured his skull. My guess was that he'd lifted his arm to block his head, which probably saved his life.

He never woke up.

By the time I was done, he had a significant amount of stitches and I was thanking whatever gods that were listening that I'd stocked up on supplies. He had them ranging from the top of his hip bone and all the way up to an area just above his ear. The largest was the section on his abdomen, and the smallest were two spots on his cheek and chin. I wasn't sure how many I'd given him since I lost count. But once I finished, I slid back into the floor between the couch and the coffee table. I was too tired to clean him up. His metal hand was limp as it hung off the edge of the sofa. His fingers barely grazed the floor at my side. I lifted my knee and rested my hand on it. Both of them were covered in drying blood.

Graham was sitting on the coffee table at my side. He looked as exhausted as I felt. Though I wasn't sure if it was physical or emotional. He probably didn't expect to see anything like that again.

"Thank you for your help," I said after a long silence. I dropped my head back, resting it on Bucky's immobile thigh.

"I don't really know what to say to that," Graham replied. He was looking down at his hands now, still shaky.

"I'm sorry you had to see all of that. I wouldn't have asked you to stay if I thought it was a possibility."

"Who is this guy anyway? I mean—you said he was a sergeant but he has a metal arm. He won't go to the hospital. You called him 'baby." I pinched my eyes shut and had to remind myself that I couldn't rub them with bloodied fingers.

"It slipped out."

"Stark said the last guy you dated put a bullet in your shoulder."

"You know you're really observant."

"You're not the first person to say that." I sighed and lifted my head again.

"It's complicated. We never dated. He was never my boyfriend. There was a just a thing. An almost thing. It didn't last long enough to become a thing."

"And he shot you?" I shook my head.

"He saved my life. If he didn't shoot me, I'd be dead."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"I'm too tired to explain it to you right now. Like I said, it's complicated. He bought me time on a technicality. That's all there is to it. He saved my life, but yeah, I got shot in the process."

"And you love him?" I didn't answer. I studied the blood caked to my fingernails instead. "You don't have to answer that. That was rude."

"No, it's fine," I assured him. "It's just that—I don't really know how to answer that. I didn't know him long enough to love him."

"It's not about time, man. It's about an emotional bond. My parents only knew each other for two weeks when they got married," he told me, as he picked the blood out of his own fingernails. "It was mostly because my dad was in the Navy and being shipped out soon. I was young when he died so I can't really remember if they loved each other. I just know they were together until he got sick. And she stayed with him even when he was sick. I guess that's love."

"I'm sorry to hear that." He shrugged.

"That's life, right? Marry a girl you've known for two weeks because you think you're going to die in war, only to get taken out by your own body turning against you. Could be worse, though, I guess. Could be frozen for seventy years, like you said." I regretted making that comment now that Bucky was lying bleeding on the couch behind me.

"Believe it or not, it could actually be worse than that," I informed him.

"How so?"

"You have no idea who this man is, do you?" He looked at Bucky beside me. I could still hear him breathing softly, but he'd lost so much blood. I wasn't sure how long it would take for him to wake up. And I certainly didn't know how long it would take for him to recover.

"Does he work at Chipotle?" Graham asked. I smiled and shook my head.

"No, I don't think he even knows what Chipotle is."

"Then I don't know him."

"You know someone with a metal arm at Chipotle?" He laughed softly.

"Nah. I was just trying to make a joke." I sighed heavily and dropped my head back again. "He's not going to make it, is he?" I looked back up at him.

"I think he'll be fine once he recovers from all the blood loss."

"I've never seen anyone survive after losing that much blood."

"He's resilient." He shrugged.

"I guess you'd have to be with an arm made out of metal. Those scars look—brutal."

"I imagine it required resiliency."

"You never answered my question."

"What question?"

"About whether or not you love him."

"I don't know," I told him truthfully. "I don't think I'm really qualified to make that call. But it's probably the closest I've ever come to that. Romantically anyway." He nodded slowly and looked back at his hands.

"I think he loves you," he said, speaking in a hushed voice as if Bucky was going to overhear.

"Why do you say that?"

"Just the way he looked at you when you called him 'baby."

"Like how?"

I was honestly expecting him to give me something cheesy or romantic. Some kind of ridiculous analogy. He liked to read a lot. But he just shrugged and said, "He just looked at you like a guy looks at someone they love; I don't know." I shook my head again. I didn't really know what that meant and I was under too much stress to know how Bucky looked when I'd said it. I didn't mean to say it either. I'd never called him that before. I hadn't seen him in months. But maybe seeing him there bleeding everywhere and not opening his eyes; I just panicked.

"You should get cleaned up and get some sleep. Bathroom is upstairs. First door on the left. Yours is the second door on the left. Sheets and towels are in the closet. Though I guess there aren't any towels right now. There might still be a few in the bathroom."

"Are you going to stay down here with him?" he asked.

"Yeah, I can't leave him alone like this."

"We could take shifts." I shook my head.

"No, he doesn't know you. I don't know how he'd react if you were the first person he saw after all this." I watched him climb back on his feet. Now that he was tired it was more evident that his knee was injured. He hobbled like an old man with back pain as he came around the table.

"Do you want any help cleaning up?" He nodded toward the grocery bags we'd abandoned on the floor. "Or putting the food away?"

"No, it's fine. It'll give me something to do. I don't sleep much anyway."

"Alright. Well—goodnight."

"Night."

He disappeared up the stairs and I waited until he was gone before I got back to my feet. I went to the kitchen to wash the blood off of my hands and spent the next few minutes putting away the groceries that were now warm. When I was done, I went back to the living room to clean up the blood that had dripped all over my couch and onto the floor. Luckily, the towels had collected most of it, but there were still going to be stains. Bucky didn't wake up, even as I lifted his arm up and pushed him on his side so I could exchange the towels beneath him for clean ones.

My phone was still in my back pocket and I could feel it buzz for what must have been the third time. I was carrying the towels into the kitchen so I could clean them before they stained and I was pretty sure Stark was calling. I was also pretty sure that he wasn't going to let me get away with ignoring him for much longer. So I pressed accept and brought it to my ear.

"I'm fine," I assured him.

"Why the hell haven't you answered? I've been trying to get ahold of you all night," he retorted.

"I was busy. I've had some friends over. I didn't hear my phone."

"JARVIS lost connection for almost an hour. I was about five seconds away from getting into a suit."

"We're okay, Stark. The raccoon cut the power and I called a friend to help me fix it. Now he's staying over. Nothing to worry about."

"What friend?"

"Just another ex-soldier from my meetings."

"I know about the kid. Who's the other guy?"

"I'm not telling you because I'm not going to let you do anymore background checks on my friends. They're both fine. They're both nice guys. Don't worry about it. I know what I'm doing."

"I find that really hard to believe."

"Just butt out and let me make my own mistakes then. Clara's my sister. Not my mother. I don't need you to babysit me."

"I really hope you know what you're doing."

"Goodnight, Stark." I hung up and slid the phone back into my pocket.

I got the towels soaking in the washer and the blood cleaned off of the kitchen floor and the hallway before I returned to the living room. Bucky still hadn't moved, and I wasn't sure how long he would be out for. So I pulled the blanket off of the back of the couch and draped it over them. Then I returned to my seat on the floor at his side. Only this time, I reached out and wrapped my palm around his metal fingers before shutting my eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

I woke up a few hours later when I felt Bucky shift on the couch beside me. I had my head resting next to his thigh and my arms wrapped around myself. My body ached from sitting in the same spot on the hard floor for so long. I felt him move and then he let out a groan. My eyes shot open.

"Hey, whoa. What are you doing?" I asked as I jumped to my knees and put my hands on his chest. He was trying to sit up but he didn't put up much of a fight. He dropped back onto the couch and groaned again. "You're not going anywhere for a while," I told him as I smoothed his hair back out of his face so I could see how warm he was. But he was always warm, so it wasn't easy to tell.

"I don't think I could go anywhere if I tried," he said. His eyes were still shut, but there was a tension on his face that hadn't been there when he was knocked out. He was definitely feeling it now.

"And you shouldn't. You lost a lot of blood and that shrapnel was deep. Even with accelerated healing, you're going to need time to recover."

"I don't want to put you in danger." He moved again but I shoved him back down.

"Don't worry about me. You're not going anywhere, alright?" He finally gave up and didn't try to sit up again. But then his eyes finally opened and he looked at me.

"I need to clean up," he told me.

"Then I'll help you." I stood and tried to wrap my arm around him, but we only managed to get him about two inches off of the couch before he dropped again.

"I can do it," he insisted, though he was breathing heavily through his clenched teeth again. "Just give me a second." I moved to sit on the coffee table as he worked through the pain. It took him a minute to get passed it, and then he sat up in one swift movement. But his face went pale and he was holding his breath. I took a seat beside him and put my hand on his bare shoulder. His skin was burning.

"You okay?" I asked. He didn't answer right away. He shook his head once and then needed another minute to come up with words.

"Feels like I'm being torn apart from the inside," he muttered.

"Well, considering the amount of shrapnel and broken glass I pulled out of you, I think that's to be expected. There were a couple of rocks too."

"Thank you. I don't know how to repay you."

"Oh, you definitely owe me one. But we'll talk about it another time. Come on." I lifted his arm around my shoulder and tried to hoist him to his feet. He was much stronger and heavier than me, and I was pretty much useless at helping him. But even if I could take just a tiny bit of weight off of his wounds, then it was enough.

We managed to get him to his feet but it took some time to get them moving. And once he did, he winced and hissed through his teeth with every tiny step. I left him in the bathroom with strict instructions not to get the sutures wet and then went to clean up the towels while he was busy. He appeared in the kitchen entryway while I was turning on the washing machine. He hadn't been very quiet for once and he still had a lot of dried blood on his chest and his back. But his arms, and most of his face, were clean.

"When was the last time you ate something?" I asked as he slumped against the arch, clutching at his bare stomach and wincing. "Are you hungry?"

"Tired," is all that came out.

"You can take my bed if you can get up the stairs. Otherwise, all I have to offer you is a couch."

"Is the kid staying?"

"He doesn't have any place else to go." He nodded once.

"Convenient. The couch is fine." He turned to hobble back into the hall and I rushed to his side to help him. He seemed grateful for the aid as he leaned into me and took a deep breath before moving forward.

"So you don't remember me," I said as we walked.

"I know enough," he told me.

"How much is enough?"

"I know you were a combat medic and probably wouldn't let me die."

"I see."

We returned to the couch and I helped him sit back down. He took a long time to breathe after his exertion and I located a pillow for him to use instead of the arm of the couch. I handed it over and he propped it beneath his head. His legs rested on the other arm of the sofa since he was much too big to be sleeping on it. I pulled the blanket back over his legs.

"And I know you had feelings for me," he added as I tucked the blanket in beside him. I could feel the gun stuffed into the cushions and I couldn't remember him sneaking it in there.

"And how did you come to that conclusion?" I questioned. He reached out and ran the pad of his thumb over my cheek again. His fingers were clean now, but I could feel dried blood flake off of my skin as he touched me. I forgot that he'd smeared blood on my face.

"It was a hunch," he said. "Until I heard you tell the kid." I nodded and stood back up, quickly rubbing the rest of the blood off of my cheek.

"Get some sleep, Bucky," I told him. Then I turned toward the kitchen so I could shut off all the lights and wash my face.

By the time I returned to the living room, he was asleep again, though he looked slightly more comfortable and less likely to bleed to death. I wasn't ready to leave him there by himself. So I went to my room to get some blankets and pillows off of my bed and set up camp on the armchair beside the couch. I fell asleep to the sound of him breathing quietly in the dark.


	8. Chapter 8

I could feel the heat of the sun against my back as I walked through the debris of a crumbling church. Shattered stained glass made beams of colored light through the dusty air. I could still hear shouting and voices from outside, but I moved away from them. I knew I should have returned to help them, but I had to go back to the trucks and confess what I'd done. I had to surrender my weapons and tell them to hold me down until I no longer felt the urge to murder my friends. So I kept my feet moving forward, crunching through bits of colored glass and chunks of stone.

I was terrified of what would happen if I found another member of my team. I could still see the momentary shock of confusion on Tran's face right before I pulled the trigger. There had been a brief flash of betrayal before I took his life. I could still hear the frantic tone of Captain Russell's voice as he begged for my gun. What if he was who I found next? What if the next person I saw when I left the church was Russell and I killed him? Or even Jimenez or the Colonel? I was going to spend the rest of my life in prison, or worse, trapped in my own head and unable to control my own body.

When I left the church, I could hear more shouting and footsteps. I told myself to stop so that I didn't hurt anyone, but my feet kept moving. My fingers slid down the weapon and rested on the trigger. When he came around the corner, my friend and my comrade, I shot him between the eyes.

I woke up gasping. I was still on the uncomfortable chair in the living room. I'd kicked the blanket to the floor in my struggle. The sun was already up, spilling beams of golden light in stripes through the blinds.

Bucky was still lying on the couch but was awake now. I wasn't sure how long he'd been that way or if I'd just woken him up. He moved his head to the side and glanced up at me, but I couldn't find any words, and I was sure he didn't need to hear them. I could see the understanding on his face.

I decided not to give him a chance to speak anyway. I jumped out of the armchair and headed right toward the hallway.

"What time is it? Are you hungry?" I asked.

"I'm fine," I heard him reply from behind me.

I went to make breakfast anyway. It had been a long time since I had people to cook for. Not that I particularly enjoyed cooking. I usually looked for any excuse not to. But it helped me keep my mind off of things. And Bucky liked waffles. Maybe he couldn't remember that he liked waffles, but I did. Plus, the kid probably liked them too and the process of making them helped me push stop thinking about killing my friends.

Graham was still asleep and when I went back to check on Bucky after getting the coffee started, I found him asleep on the couch too. I didn't want to put on any music in case I woke them, but I couldn't stand the silence. My ears always started to ring and I couldn't handle it for very long. So I hummed to myself as I prepared the batter just so I could have something to listen to.

I heard Graham when he woke up. I could hear creaking from upstairs and then footsteps coming down the hall. It reminded me of how silent Bucky always was. Even in a house that was always shifting and had wood floors, he never made a sound unless he wanted me to know he was there.

Graham headed right for the kitchen once he reached the bottom floor.

"What are you making?" he asked me as he appeared in the entryway still groggy from sleep. His short brown hair was messy and sticking out of his face. He was still tired from the events of the night before.

"Waffles," I told him. "I hope you like waffles."

"I would worship waffles if that was an acceptable religion." I shook my head and rolled my eyes. He limped over to the table and nearly collapsed into the closest chair. "What were you singing?"

"Oh, I don't really know. Just trying to break the silence, I guess. I hate when it's quiet."

"How'd the patient?" he asked as I got the first waffle started.

"Still breathing. He was awake earlier. Probably won't be able to move for a while, though."

"He handles pain really well. I mean—aside from the passing out part. But I think that probably had more to do with the fact that blood was squirting out of his stomach like a fucking hose. And I mean—he did yank that piece of metal out without even stopping to think about it. I guess that's not the worst he's ever had, though. That arm—looks rough." I turned back around to hand him a mug of coffee.

"It was," I said.

"How did you meet that guy anyway? I know you were Special Forces and were probably up to all kinds of weird stuff, but how does a girl like you end up with a guy like him?" This time, when I turned around, I crossed my arms over my chest and glared.

"What exactly do you mean by that?" He was looking into the purple mug and not at me, but he sensed the hostility of my tone and quickly looked back up. His eyes were wide.

"I didn't mean anything by it," he insisted. "I'm sorry. My mouth kind of runs ahead of me sometimes. I didn't mean to offend you."

"No, now I'm curious. Exactly what kind of girl do you think I am?" He shrugged.

"I don't know. Kind. Gentle." I gritted my teeth and turned back to the hot waffle maker.

"You think if I were soft I would have ended up in the Special Forces?"

"No, I guess not. But you're still nicer than I'm used to."

"And what kind of guy do you think he is?" He took a moment to respond as I assembled a plate and balanced the creamer and syrup in one arm. I set them down on the table in front of him but he was still busy contemplating my question.

"I think he's dangerous," he finally concluded.

"Funny. He thinks the same about you." He huffed and reached for the syrup.

"I'm a huge wuss. I couldn't even make it through one tour and now I can never serve again. I'm a twenty-three-year-old homeless veteran with the body of a twelve-year-old and a knee made out of plastic. What kind of danger could I possibly be to a guy with a robot arm, who can rip chunks of metal out of his own skin and not even scream?" I didn't answer. I went back to the counter to get another waffle started for Bucky. "No, I get it," he muttered from behind me. "He's not worried that I'm dangerous to him. It's you."

"What?" I asked.

"He's worried that I'm a danger to you." I turned back around to face him. He was making his coffee and not paying any attention to me. As if this was a completely normal conversation to be having at the breakfast table. He was probably letting his mouth run ahead of him again.

"Stark said HYDRA was after you, right?" he continued as he stirred in the coffee creamer. He finally looked up at me, but I still didn't answer. I turned my back on him again.

I had barely gotten the second waffle going when I heard Graham yelp from behind me. I turned around to find Bucky in the kitchen, silent on his feet even when he was in pain. He had Graham by the head and my pink knife pressed against the kid's exposed throat.

"He knows too much," he said, looking right at me. His expression was dark again, most of it hidden in the shade of his blood matted hair.

"Put the knife down. He's just a kid," I told him.

"Twenty-three," Graham squeaked. We both ignored him.

"He knows too much about you," Bucky continued. "If they haven't gotten to him yet, they will."

"Everything he knows is everything they already know."

"He knows about me."

"He doesn't know anything about you except that you have a metal arm and a high tolerance for pain."

"That's enough. He runs his mouth to one person and we're both dead." I sighed.

"He's not going to tell anyone. I trust him."

"And if he does?"

"Then you have my permission to stab him, but not with my pink knife. Sam bought it for me and it's my favorite." I went to his side and yanked the knife out of his hand. He let it go but kept his metal grip on Graham's face. The poor kid's eyes were wide and terrified. Bucky forced his head back, making him look up so he could threaten him some more.

"You tell anyone I'm here. Anyone at all. And I won't kill you, but I'll make you wish I did. And if you hurt her, I will destroy everything you love and make you watch. And then I'll kill you. Painfully. Slowly. Understood?" Graham tried to nod but his head was stuck.

"Yes, sir. I understand, sir," he mumbled through metal fingers. I wrapped my hand around Bucky's free arm and pulled him away from the table.

"Come on. You shouldn't be up unless you absolutely have to," I reminded him.

"I thought it was necessary." He let me help him back to the couch and sat down with a pained grunt.

"How are you feeling?" I asked. He grunted again in response.

Since he was awake, I decided to set him up with the TV to give him something to do for the rest of the day. I pulled the coffee table closer to the couch so he wouldn't have to reach very far to change the channels and so I could leave him with water or snacks or something.

"How long?" he asked as he watched me shuffle around the living room attempting to make him comfortable.

"How long for what?" I replied.

"How long was I here? Before."

"Long enough for me to know you like waffles."

"Uh—I think your waffle is burning," I heard Graham say from the kitchen.

"Shit." I hurried back to the kitchen to see if I could save it. Luckily, it wasn't burned. But it was crispy. And Bucky seemed to like those ones more anyway. "Sorry about that," I told Graham as I assembled Bucky's plate and checked the waffle for burns.

"It's alright. I really should watch what I say."

"It wouldn't matter. He doesn't trust easily. I don't even think he trusts me."

"I think he does. Otherwise, he wouldn't have come here."

"Or it was just a matter of convenience."

"Still. He'd have to trust you. Plus that whole—starry eyes thing he got when he looked at you."

"I'm pretty sure that was just blood loss."

"You're right. I always look at people like that when I'm delirious from blood loss. I tried to propose marriage to all of my nurses."

"You talk too much, kid," I said as I passed him to take Bucky his waffle and some ibuprofen.

"I'm twenty-three!" he called after me.

Bucky was right where I left him on the couch. Only this time he'd moved the pillow to the other side so he could lie on his side without bothering his stitches. I set the plate down on the coffee table and then knelt beside him so I could look him in the eye.

"I brought you some ibuprofen. I'm afraid it won't help much with the pain, but it might relieve some of the inflammation." His face was half smushed into the pillow and the only word I could use to describe him like that was "adorable." Like an angry and defeated cat. But I'd never say that out loud. His blue eyes were dark and his skin was pallid. But even then, he seemed so much more alive that he had before. As if he'd finally regained something of himself. And was comfortable expression irritation.

"Thank you," he muttered even though the pillow was squishing his face.

"You're welcome. Now will you tell me what happened? And I'm afraid 'boom' isn't a sufficient enough explanation." He lifted his hand and motioned toward the TV. I turned around to see what he was referring to. He was watching the news on mute. There was an image of a burning building they were still hosing down. The words "Explosion in downtown DC," were under the picture. I couldn't make out exactly what building or where it was. Just that the damage was substantial, and it was likely a government building. I turned back to Bucky. "That was you?" I asked.

"Them," he said.

"You're not with them anymore?"

"No."

"How long?"

"Since I saw you last." I nodded slowly.

"I knew you were starting to question things again."

"I kept putting my hand over my heart," he told me as he lifted his right hand and pressed it against his bare chest. "And counting to four."

"Did you have any idea why you were doing that?"

"No. Just that you knew. And that was enough. Something wasn't right."

"But you don't remember anything?"

"I remember some things. Him, mostly." I nodded slowly and chewed on my lip.

"You mean Steve?"

"He was my friend."

"He still is." He didn't say anything to that. He just studied my face and I couldn't handle it for long. So I stood up. "Eat your waffle. I'll help you get cleaned up afterward, but I have to work today and I'm going to take the kid to get some job applications. I'll be back sometime in the late afternoon. Don't even think about leaving this house or I'll hunt you down myself."

"They're coming for you," he said as I walked away.

"I decided not to worry about it," I admitted. But I stopped in the hall with my hand on the banister. Then I turned back around to face him again. "I thought they just wanted me to use against you, but the last time I saw you, you said it was something else. Something big." He shook his head slowly, even though it was still half smushed into the pillow.

"Whatever it is, it's been a long time coming." He paused. "It has nothing to do with me anymore." I nodded.

"Let me know if you need any help."

* * *

*Looks at the world's most deadly assassin* Aww.


	9. Chapter 9

When we finished with breakfast, I returned to the living room to check Bucky's stitches while Graham cleaned up the kitchen. I knelt at Bucky's side and checked the stitches on his face while he lay smushed into the pillow.

"How do you feel?" I asked him as I moved to examine the ones on his chest.

"Mm," he said.

"You need to clean up. You can either let me wrap you in plastic and help you up the stairs to shower, or I can help you clean up with a washcloth in the downstairs bathroom." He looked back at me and I wasn't exactly sure of the expression on his face. It was almost like he thought I was nuts.

"That's a dumb question," Graham said as he walked back into the living room to get Bucky's plate from the coffee table. He picked up the plate and then turned back around for the kitchen, mocking my voice. "We can either drag you up the stairs and possibly rip out all your stitches, or I can give you a sponge bath. Hmm, what a difficult choice." I sighed heavily and resisted the urge to throw something at him as his voice carried down the hall.

"I was at least going to give him the option," I defended.

"I think I'd rather not go up the stairs," Bucky said.

"See? He made a choice." I stood up to help him back on his feet.

"Of course he chose THAT," Graham yelled from the kitchen. I turned back to Bucky.

"I'm starting to reconsider," I admitted.

"Reconsider what?" he asked, apparently confused. He had his hands on his knees and didn't look like he wanted to stand up.

"Letting you stab him."

"Just say the word."

"I was kidding. Christ. Come on then."

I wrapped my arm around him and helped him up. It took him a while to get moving again, just like before. But I finally managed to get him down the hall to the small bathroom and shut us up inside. Then I took a deep breath and tried not to stare at him standing there bare chested and caked in dried blood.

"Alright, I'll just…" I motioned toward the sink and then pushed passed him to get a cloth.

"I can do it myself," he informed me.

"I'll just get the areas around your sutures and your back and you can take over from there. How does that sound?"

"Fine."

"Then I'll help you clean the blood out of your hair."

"Okay."

I turned the water on and waited for it to warm up. I could see him standing behind me from the corner of my eye. It felt so weird to have him there again. I didn't know what he knew about me. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to jump up and down because he was in my house again and he was (mostly) okay. But he didn't know me and I didn't want to freak him out.

"Alright," I said, turning back around to face him. I held up the wet cloth. "Are you ready?"

"I'm sure I can handle it."

"Right. I know you can." I moved around to his other side so I could clean the blood off of his back. There wasn't a whole lot on him anymore, but I didn't want to just jump right in and run my hands all over his chest. I took a deep breath.

"Can you?" he asked as I hesitated. I shot him a glare through the mirror.

"Believe it or not, this isn't my first time." He looked up at met my gaze through the reflection, and now the expression on his face leaned more toward sarcastic than anything else.

"Believe it or not, I already knew that," he said.

And I was pretty sure he wasn't talking about cleaning blood off of people anymore. I was also pretty sure my cheeks had turned three shades pinker. So I ducked behind him and ran the now cold rag over his skin. His body tensed and he hissed.

"Cold?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Good. You deserved that." I peeked over his shoulder again and caught a hint of a smile.

Once I was done with his back, I lifted his metal arm and slipped beneath it so that I could work on his side. I set the arm on my shoulder and began to clean the blood caked to his skin between all the sections of stitches. I could see him watching me and the metal plates shifted and moved on my shoulder as he adjusted his arm to be less heavy on me.

"It doesn't bother you," he stated. I looked up at him.

"What doesn't bother me?" I asked. He looked at his arm and then back at me. His eyebrows were furrowed like he was confused again. But then he shook his head and didn't say anything else. I went back to work.

I managed to remove all of the blood off of his chest and then moved over to his other side. I ran the rag up the side of his neck and down his shoulder to his stomach before I remembered I'd told him he could do the rest on his own. But he made no complaints and I said nothing until I finished with his torso. Then I stepped back and motioned toward his blood matted hair.

"We should probably do something about that," I said.

"I don't know how to get it out without getting it wet."

"I can probably do it if you can just lean over the sink. Might be tricky. Might hurt." I hopped onto the counter by the sink and he leaned forward slowly. His hand pressed against his side and he winced. "Sorry."

"It's fine." I had him turn his head to the side so I could attempt to clean out the mats of blood without getting the stitches wet. It wasn't easy, but he still didn't speak. "I hate doing this to you," I said as his blood moved down the drain in swirls of red and pink.

"Why?" he questioned.

"Just—water always kind of freaks me out. I'd probably panic if someone held my head so close to the faucet." His metal fingers gripped the sink a little tighter and I instantly regretted thinking it out loud. I just wanted to fill the silence, and I had a reason for hating water. Now I was sure that he did too.

"I think that's it," I said after a while. I shut the water off and he stood up as I slid off the sink. He looked much cleaner now. No longer caked in blood and sweat. But his skin was still pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. The stitches were puffy and swollen.

"Are you sure you don't need my help with the rest?" I asked. "You can barely move as it is."

"All the more reason I should do it on my own," he told me, as he picked up the rag and rung it out in the sink.

I shook my head in confusion. I didn't know what he was talking about. He gave me the same almost sarcastic look through the mirror and I realized I wasn't looking at the Winter Soldier anymore. This was Sergeant James Barnes. The man Steve referred to as a "smart ass" on more than one occasion.

"I don't think it would end well," he said. I shook my head again.

"I don't know what you mean." The corners of his lips turned up in that almost smile I remembered. Then he looked down at the sink and focused on turning the water on.

"If you help me I'll end up injured. Even if it's just my ego."

Then I stared at him for a few seconds, blinking several times as my brain comprehended what he was saying. Was he flirting with me? And then I remembered what else Steve had used to describe his old friend. "Horrible flirt." My eyes narrowed and I put my hands on my hips.

"James Barnes," I started, but I couldn't get anything else to come out.

His expression had gone back to being hard and unreadable and I wasn't sure if he'd meant to flirt or if it was just one of those rare instances when James Barnes the flirt slipped through without him really noticing. Or if he'd even meant it the way I was thinking at all. So I shook my head and opened the door. But before I headed out I turned back around and popped my head in.

"For the record, James, I've never injured your ego." Then I shut the door to give him his privacy.

* * *

Sorry for not updating this sooner. I started painting and then I lost track of time. And then I somehow thought I updated? Idk what happened there.

Anyway, random writing insight time. When I started writing this scene, it was supposed to be more emotional and not flirty at all. But I was planning this chapter in my head when I was lying in bed instead of writing. So by the time I got around to writing it, I completely forgot what they were supposed to talk about and the characters were like "Whoop, not gonna do that. Let's flirt instead." And I made it my goal, when I started this story, to let them do whatever the hell they want. Even if it wasn't what I originally wanted or planned. And to just run with whichever direction it took me in. So instead of this scene that would have been emotional and sad we get these two fucking nerds flirting in the bathroom.

*Shouts at characters* You two are ANIMALS!


	10. Chapter 10

Bucky stayed in the bathroom for an unusually long time. Once I finished with him, I sent Graham up the stairs to get ready for the day while I finished cleaning up the kitchen. I didn't start to become worried until I was about to step up the stairs. I heard the undeniable sound of glass shattering from down the hall. I paused at the end of the stairs but there were no other sounds.

I wanted to go and comfort him. I wanted to talk to him. But noise of shattering glass had me frozen to the spot. I didn't know what happened to him while we were apart. They'd taken him away again and they could have done anything. Even if they hadn't, sometimes it was hard to tell if you were talking to Bucky or the Winter Soldier or some combination of the two.

Then I wondered if the breaking glass was my window. What if he was leaving again? Now that he'd gotten help, he had no use for me anymore. But I knew he wouldn't be able to get very far. It took a lot of work just to get him to the bathroom, and he'd left all his weapons behind.

I stepped back into the hallway and cautiously approached the door.

"Bucky?" I asked. "Are you okay?" He took a moment to answer and I was almost sure he'd left. But then I heard him speak.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It's okay."

"I'll fix it."

"You don't have to. Just—come get some rest."

"I will."

"I'll go get you something to wear. And a toothbrush. Is that okay?"

"Yes."

I reluctantly left him alone and headed back up the stairs to find him some clothes. I still had a few of the things he'd left when he stayed with me before, but they were buried deep in my closet and I didn't feel like digging them out. So I grabbed a pair of sweats and located a new toothbrush in the hall closet. I brought them downstairs and tapped on the door again.

"I have some sweats for you," I said. The door popped open and I slid the pants and the toothbrush into the space. I only caught a glimpse of my shattered mirror before he shut the door.

"Where's the kid?" he asked from inside.

"In the shower. Why?"

"I don't trust him."

"I know." I waited for him to get dressed and neither of us spoke again until the door opened. He stepped out into the hall wearing my sweatpants and looked back at me from behind a veil of damp hair. "Are you ready to lie down?" He nodded once. So I went to his side and wrapped my arm around his bare waist. I helped him hobble to the couch and he sat down with a huff. "What happened?" I asked as I reached for the blanket, intending to tuck him back in like a patient. He shook his head once.

"I lost control," he said as he ran his hand over his metal arm. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's just a mirror."

"It could have been you." I put my hand on his shoulder and gently guided him back down to the pillow. He laid down without a fight and allowed me to pull the blanket back over him.

"But it wasn't," I reminded him. He didn't say anything else. So I left to get ready.

When I left the bathroom a little while later, the kid was still sitting in the spare bedroom. He was on the futon with one of my books propped up on his lap.

"What are you doing?" I questioned.

"Reading," he told me as he looked up. Like this wasn't the most obvious thing in the world.

"You could have gone back downstairs." He laughed sarcastically.

"Would have probably died before I got to the bottom of the stairs." I rolled my eyes.

"He's not going to kill you." I turned to return to my room and heard him stand up.

"Easy for you to say. He likes you." I turned back around and nodded, thinking about my now shattered bathroom mirror.

"Just—try not to make any sudden movements."

"Or say anything about anything ever."

"That too." I reached for my shoes and met him back in the hall. "Come on. Let's go."

"Do you mind if I use you as a human shield?"

"Go right ahead."

He followed me down the stairs where we found Bucky right where I left him. Only it looked like he'd fallen asleep at some point, but we woke him up when we came down. He watched us, only slightly threatening, as we got ready to leave. Once I had my shoes on, and a clean jacket, I sat down on the coffee table.

"I'll be back later," I told him. "Don't go anywhere."

"I wouldn't be able to," he reminded me.

"Doesn't mean you won't try. Just—stick around. Help yourself to whatever you want. Try to rest as much as you can."

"I will." I nodded quickly and headed out the door. Graham hurried to keep up with me as he lugged my heavy meeting box in his hands. We didn't say anything until I pulled out onto the street. The radio came on as the car started.

"There's no word yet, on whether or not the explosion is being ruled arson. Investigators…" I reached out and shut it off. Graham glanced at me and stayed quiet. For about half a minute.

"I saw what he did to the mirror," he said as he chewed on his thumbnail and looked out the window. I took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel.

"He has a hard time," I explained, "controlling it."

"Controlling what?"

"I can't really explain it."

"And you don't trust that he's not going to turn that arm on you?" I hesitated to answer but eventually nodded. Even if I wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't turn the arm on me in a moment of lost control, I didn't want anyone to know that thought had crossed my mind.

"I trust him with my life."

"That makes one of us," he muttered.


	11. Chapter 11

I didn't know many places Graham might be able to find a job. I almost considered taking him to the diner just because I was familiar with the woman who ran the place. But with a bad knee, I couldn't really imagine him on his feet all day. We made a couple of stops around the city before I took him to the Smithsonian.

"Don't tell me you want me to become a museum curator," he said, in his usual cynical tone, as I pulled into the parking lot.

"I just wanted to show you something," I replied.

Once we parked, he followed me out of the car where I led him to Steve's exhibit. He was quiet at first, and I guessed he was trying to figure out why the hell I'd brought him there. But he didn't ask me until we reached the main exhibit. Where a line of mannequins were all dressed up to resemble the famous Howling Commandos.

"Why did you bring me here?" I asked. I was looking up at the painting of Bucky above the display. The jacket on the mannequin was just a replica since he'd been wearing it the day he fell and Bucky Barnes was lost forever.

He looked so different. It was sometimes hard for me to believe he was the same person. His face flashed across the video screens. There were images of him and Steve during the war. When they were friends with their whole lives ahead of them. They laughed and joked around and looked as close as Steve claimed they were. Graham didn't seem to notice. Or maybe Bucky's face really had changed so much that he couldn't even see him in the man who'd appeared bloody and half dead in my kitchen the night before.

"This way," I instructed.

Then I headed toward the individual displays. There was one for each member of the Commandos. Each display gave a description about their lives before the war, their relationships with Steve, and whatever heroic accomplishments they'd done with the Commandos. I stopped before Bucky's. There was a single photo of his young face and a brief description of his friendship with Steve. The voice over went through the process of reading the display, ending with his death.

"Bucky Barnes," Graham said from my side. I nodded slowly.

"Do you get it now?" I asked. He shook his head.

"Hell no. This just made everything a thousand times worse."

"I'll try to explain it in the car."

We didn't bother to go through the rest of the exhibit. We headed right for the exit and stayed silent until we were safely inside the car again.

"Okay, so what the hell?" Graham said as soon as he buckled his seatbelt. I took a deep breath as I prepared to launch into a half-assed explanation.

"What do you know about Captain America?" I asked. He shrugged.

"I don't know. My dad used to like hero-worship him, but I never learned any specifics. At least not outside of history class."

"You know who James Barnes is?"

"Well, I do NOW. He's supposed to be dead!"

"I did say he was resilient."

"Yeah, but what does that—Oh." I nodded slowly again.

"I can't go into specifics. It's not my story and he doesn't trust you enough to tell you himself. But the Bucky you just learned was best friends with Steve Rogers, that's the same man you met last night."

"He should be dead."

"And so should Steve." I took another deep breath. "Just—Bucky—what they did to him—it wasn't his fault, okay? I want you to understand that. He was a victim, but there are a lot of people who are going to want him held accountable for everything they made him do. And that's why we couldn't take him to a hospital last night. That's why we can't tell anyone where he is. Not Stark, none of your friends, your family. Not even Steve Rogers."

"What exactly did they make him do?"

"A lot of—terrible things, Graham."

"And wouldn't Cap want to know he's okay?"

"I know that he would, but that's not our call to make. Bucky doesn't want him to know. Like I said, there are a lot of people who want him dead. Contacting Steve now could potentially put him in danger." I paused and he didn't interject. "I never wanted you to get involved. I didn't know he would come back. I haven't seen him in months and I didn't even think he still knew who I was."

"How could he not know you?"

"That's the complicated part. They did something to him. They made him forget. Everything. And I was just barely getting to know him when they made him forget me too. Does that make any sense?"

"None of this makes any sense."

"If you want to walk away, I'll completely understand. I'll still help you because I promised that I would. I'll give you money to stay in a motel. I'll still help you find a job. But you can't tell anyone about him. Not a whisper. Not ever. Promise me that you'll, at least, do that for me."

"Sure. I promise. Who would I tell anyway? You're the only person I ever talk to anymore."

"If you help me—in the future when this is all over and we find a way to make things right—you'd have a lot of powerful allies, okay? Me, I'm not much. But I have a lot of connections." He huffed.

"I'll say."

"My point is that once we get things figured out—Captain America would be REALLY grateful. Sam by association. Bucky would never let anything happen to you. But he has to gain your trust first, understand?"

"I don't think I really have any use for powerful allies."

"Still."

"I got it, yeah. No talking. What guy on the couch? I don't know any guy on the couch."

"Well, if Stark asks—I told him I have 'friends' staying over. I said a couple of guys from the meetings. Stark monitors my house. He knows when there's more than one person in there."

"Stark sounds like a bit of a stalker." I laughed.

"He's trying to protect me. For my sister."

"Well, with the kind of friends you make, I guess he'd have to."

"Just—you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. Okay?"

"I got it. I got it. Can I ask like maybe one more question?"

"Shoot."

"He's not just like a regular guy who happens to have a cyborg arm, is he?" he asked. I shook my head. "He's something else."

"He's so much more," I said.

"Alright. I'm gonna get murdered by a hundred-year-old cyborg man. Could be worse ways to die, I suppose."

"I think he's ninety-seven or ninety-eight. And he's not going to murder you."

"Oh, ninety-seven. That makes all the difference."

"That's rich coming from you, Mr. 'I'm not a kid; I'm twenty-three."

"Totally different," he muttered.

"Not really."

"So can I ask you one more thing then?"

"I guess."

"You said he can't remember. Then why is he here?" I shrugged.

"I don't know. I think he knows enough. And like I said, it was probably just a matter of convenience. He was here and I was the closest person he thought was potentially trustworthy."

"Does it bother you that he doesn't remember?"

"I don't think I'm actually allowed to be bothered by it."

"What does that even mean?" he asked.

"I imagine it's much harder not to remember people who know you."

"That doesn't mean you're not allowed to feel anything. I knew people who lost limbs. In the same blast that almost took my leg. Just because they lost something and I didn't, doesn't mean I'm going to stop taking my meds or that I'm not allowed to feel pain. Just because someone has it worse, doesn't mean you're not allowed to feel." I took a deep breath and sighed.

"It hurts," I admitted.

"How much?"

"A lot." I took another deep breath. "I hate that he doesn't remember. I hate that he asks so many questions. I hate that you think he looks at me like he cares and I don't know if that's true or not. I'm not sure if he remembers enough or if it's just a feeling or a hunch. I hate that he flirts and I can't tell if it's because he means it or if he's just naturally that way and it's a weird reflection of who he used to be. I hate that he can't be alone for ten minutes with a mirror without shattering it and I can't comfort him."

"What makes you think you can't?"

"Because I don't know how. He's been through much much worse than I have and I'm barely hanging on most days."

"Maybe you should just tell him how you feel," he said as he leaned on the window. "Sometimes all people need is to not be alone."

"I don't think it'll be enough."

"To what? Save him? You can't save everyone, Jo. But it's much easier for people to save themselves if they know they're loved."

I didn't have anything to say to that.


	12. Chapter 12

I was tense during my meetings and I was sure that Graham picked up on it. I was eager for the day to finish so we could get back home. I was nervous about Bucky being there all day. I didn't know what state my house would be in when I got back, or if he would even be there. I kept catching myself anxiously tapping my fingers on the podium. I almost regretted the fact that I'd never gotten a landline phone just so I could call and check on him.

Thankfully, the second meeting ended almost on time. Graham helped me rush to get everything cleaned up and back into place and then we hurried out of the building toward the parking garage. We ended up running into my therapist as we reached the elevator. She stepped out and smiled in her usual calmness.

"Johanna, Graham. How are you?" she asked. We ran passed her to climb into the elevator she'd just vacated.

"Fine, we're great. Dandy as ever," Graham told her, as I quickly pushed the button that would take us to my car.

"Johanna, you missed your last appointment."

"I'll call you!" I shouted, but the doors slid shut and we lost sight of her. I nervously shifted on my feet.

"So we see the same therapist. How weird is that?" Graham remarked.

"Not very weird since this is the VA hospital," I pointed out.

"God, you're really wound up today."

"I'm just terrified of what could have happened while we were gone. My house could be gone. He could be gone. He could be dead."

"Nah, he's resilient. So's your house, it looks like. There's a bullet hole in the door frame. Blood stains on the wood. Old ones, I mean."

"Yeah, it's seen better days. And less dangerous occupants."

"So how'd the bullet hole get into the door?" he asked. The elevator dinged and we headed out to search for my car.

"Um—well, it's a long story," I told him.

"You seem to have a lot of those."

"You have no idea." We found my car, stuffed everything back in, and then hurried to get out of the garage and back on the road to my house.

"So tell me about the bullet hole," Graham started as soon as I reached the street. I groaned.

"I kind of—shot someone."

"Jesus. Sorry I asked."

"Yeah."

"Did you kill him?"

"Why do you ask so many questions?" He shook his head, looking out of the window at the passing cars and the low-lying sun.

"I'm just trying to get to know you, I guess. You don't talk about yourself hardly ever. If I'm going to stay with you, I'd like to know why the hell there are bullet holes in your doorframe."

"Fair enough. But you don't talk about yourself either," I reminded him.

"Good point." Then he shrugged. "Not much to tell. Barely scraped through basic training, almost got blown up, saw some friends die, came home, stayed with my mom, she died. Now it's just me."

"You didn't tell me that your mom died."

"You didn't ask."

"Is that why you're on your own?"

"My mom had some family in Nevada, I guess. She'd never formally made a will or anything. So they kind of took it upon themselves to arrange her funeral. And take all her stuff. And sell her house. Lawyers wouldn't help me fight it because I couldn't afford them and they all collectively decided I wasn't responsible enough to handle everything. It hasn't all been bad, though. I've never had to sleep on the actual streets or anything. I had my own apartment for a while and they let me stay there for a couple of months before I got evicted. I've always found a couch to crash on or a motel room to stay in. Just when I lost my job at stupid Chipotle that everything went tits up. I've been having trouble finding another job because they always call my last manager for reference and he hates my guts."

"Why? What happened?"

"I had an episode. I threw an unfinished burrito at a customer. There was a lot of hot sauce on it. It got in his eyes. He threatened to sue. I guess no one wants to take on the responsibility of a marine with a habit of throwing burritos at people."

"What kind of episode? Like PTSD?"

"No, I've had those. Never at work, though. That guy was just being a total dick and I lost my temper, I guess." Then I snorted.

"You got fired for chucking a burrito?"

"Yeah! Can you believe that?"

"Well, I can give you a recommendation. But only if you promise to stop throwing things at people."

"Can I make exceptions for assholes?"

"Unfortunately, you won't be able to hang onto a job if you do. There are going to be assholes in every job you do. You just have to learn to internalize it like the rest of us. Go to the gym. Punch bags of sand. Throw knives at targets instead of people."

"So the guy you shot? Did you kill him?" I took a deep breath and tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.

"Yeah, I killed him," I admitted.

"Why'd you shoot him?"

"Because I was scared. I didn't mean to kill him. But he was waving a gun in my face and called me a bitch. Right after he busted my lip open."

"Bastard deserved it then."

"I never wanted to kill him. He was my boyfriend once. We never got along but…"

"It still eats you up inside." I nodded slowly and chewed on my lip.

"Yeah, I don't think it'll ever go away."

"I understand."


	13. Chapter 13

When we got home, I hurried into the house to see if Bucky was still there and to make sure he was okay. But when I busted through the front door, the living room was empty. Graham came in behind me and set the box down on the floor.

"Damn it!" I said. He shut the door and looked around at the evidence Bucky had left behind. The TV was still on and the blankets on the couch were messy from use. But there was nothing else. Not the water bottles or snacks I'd left out for him, or even the bottle of ibuprofen.

"This is something he does a lot, huh?" Graham asked as he lifted the dirty coffee maker out of the box.

"Ugh," I responded as I headed right for the stairs. "It's my least favorite trait!"

I went to my bedroom so I could change out of my uncomfortable shoes and also so I could be alone while I sulked. But when I reached my room Bucky was sitting on the edge of my bed. He was facing the window with his bare back to me. I almost jumped when I spotted him.

"Jesus," I said, clutching my chest. "I thought you left." He turned to look at me. His skin was still pale. Stubble was growing on his chin and the circles under his eyes were still glaringly dark. He looked exhausted.

"I tried," he admitted, turning back to the window. "Didn't get very far." I approached the bed and sat down beside him. The blinds were open, but the room was almost dark thanks to the tree that shaded the window and the slowly setting sun. I could just make out the sky beyond the dying leaves.

"What are you doing up here?" I asked him. He shook his head slowly; his blue eyes were still focused on the window.

"Trying to remember. I didn't want you to find me up here. I just…"

"Couldn't get back down the stairs?" His jaw tightened as if he hated admitting he was having trouble moving. He didn't like having a weakness. But then he nodded and I knew he was only admitting it because he trusted me.

"This isn't the first time I've been injured like this," he explained. "But they always had ways to make it go away. I've never had to deal with it on my own before." I reached out to grip his right hand. It was warm and callused and he looked down like he hadn't expected me to touch him.

"You're not on your own." He glanced at me quickly before turning back to the window. I kept my grip on his hand and he didn't try to pull away. "Did it work?" I questioned. "Have you remembered anything?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I have something—but it slips away."

"Like what?" He stayed silent for a moment as he studied the shadows the tree left on my walls. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, but he seemed peaceful. Whatever chaos that caused him to break my mirror that morning was now subdued, if not gone. At least for the moment.

"Not memories," he finally told me. "Just—familiar. Like I know things, but I don't—I don't know why or how I know them."

"What exactly feels familiar to you?"

"The shadows." He motioned his free hand toward the wall where the shadows swayed just slightly in a silent breeze. "I feel like—this is normal. Like I've seen it before."

"My house feels familiar to you?"

"Parts of it." He moved his metal hand over my comforter. It was the same boring floral pattern Romanoff picked out when she redecorated my house to appear non-threatening. "I feel like I've seen this before. I know what it feels like. But I can't recall a specific memory."

"It'll come back to you. It did before." He turned to look at me again. This time his expression relaxed as his blue eyes examined my face. Then he reached his hand out and touched a cold metal thumb against my lip. He was gentle and the metal was smooth and cold.

"Every time—I feel like I lose more and more of myself. I feel like there's less of him now than there was when I was here before."

"Less of whom?"

"James Barnes." I nodded slowly. "That's why I broke the mirror."

"I understand."

"I feel safe here," he told me. "It's the first time in," he paused to shake his head, "it feels like the first time I've ever felt safe. And I know there has to be a reason." I moved my hand up the length of his arm, feeling the ridges and plates of metal, all the way up to where my fingers grazed his scarred skin. He moved his hand to my shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was covered in the scars he'd left behind.

"Some part of you must remember," I said.

"I've been in this room before," he stated. I nodded.

"Yeah, you have."

"I've slept in this room before." I nodded again.

"Yes."

"You were with me."

"Yeah, I was."

"You were…" He stopped and turned his head to the side, apparently hearing something that I wasn't. A moment later I heard clumsy footsteps on the stairs.

We immediately put space between us like we were two teenagers almost caught kissing in the dark. But he kept his hand on mine and I didn't try to take it back. Graham appeared in the doorway and peeked inside.

"Oh, you're still here," he noticed.

The flip switched. Bucky's shoulders tensed. His spine went straight, pulling at the many stitches on his chest and stomach. His expression darkened and he looked toward the door.

"So are you," he said. But his voice had gone from soft and gentle back to vaguely threatening. I let go of his hand and stood up.

"We should get you back downstairs while we have the chance," I told him. "I was thinking of getting pizza for dinner. If that's cool with everyone. But I need to check your sutures and get the towels out of the dryer."

"Yeah, alright. I'll help, Graham said. "If that's okay," he added with slight sarcasm. Bucky shot me a dark look and I returned it, telling him not to hurt my friend for being a smart ass. He stood slowly, wincing, and then nodded.

"I'd appreciate it," he said, but it sounded forced.

I wrapped my arm around his waist and his came to rest over my shoulder. He was still having trouble moving his feet and I wondered how long it had taken him to get up the stairs in the first place. He didn't accept Graham's offer for help until we reached the top of the staircase. Then his metal arm went over the kid's shoulder and I knew he was either in serious pain or he was trying to inflict serious pain. Probably both. Because by the time we reached the bottom of the stairs his face had gone several shades paler, he began to sweat, and Graham had a grimace on his face like he'd just been slowly tortured with five pieces of blunt metal.

I took it from there. Bucky dropped his arm from Graham's shoulder and the kid immediately began to rub the place where his fingers had been. I helped Bucky limp back to the couch and he sat down with a slightly irritated sigh. He looked up at me as I fussed with the blanket and the pillow.

"Give him a chance," I whispered when I caught him staring.

"I am giving him a chance," he replied. "He'd be dead if I wasn't." I looked back at his cold blue eyes.

"Then try to refrain from digging your fingers into his shoulder blades. He's just a kid."

"Twenty-three," Graham reminded me from the hallway.

"And stop eavesdropping!" I snapped, but Graham had disappeared into the kitchen. When I turned back around there was a hint of a smile on the corners of Bucky's lips.

"I'll stop," he said. I smiled, satisfied.

"Good."

"But only because you asked me to."

"Ugh." I rolled my eyes and turned back toward the hall.


	14. Chapter 14

Since everyone was cool with my pizza idea, I called in the order and emptied out the meeting box while we waited for it to arrive. I told Graham to stay in the living room with Bucky, but that lasted a total of two minutes before he followed me into the kitchen and looked around for things to help with. There wasn't much for either of us to do. And after I swatted him away a few times, he relented and took a seat at the kitchen table.

"You're not going to make us sit at the table like a real family, are you?" he asked as he picked at the napkin holder that had never actually held napkins. I was busy folding towels but I smiled at him.

"I wasn't," I said. "But now I am. Thanks for the idea." He groaned loudly, going back to that petulant teenager look.

"You're just like my mom."

One of my biggest pet peeves was being compared to people's mothers. And if it weren't for the fact that his mother was dead I would have thrown a towel at him. Bucky once told me I reminded him of Steve's mom. I hated hearing that too even though I was sure she was a nice woman. The idea just brought me right back to my adolescence when my mother claimed I was destined for motherhood just because I kept bringing home injured animals. I'd been shelling out money to the birth control industry since I was old enough to get it without my parents finding out. Maternal wasn't exactly my forte.

And it wasn't that I hated children. I just didn't want to dedicate my life to them.

"Why don't you have any pets?" Graham asked me. "Like a service dog or something? Maybe even just a cat. A cat would like this place. Or even just a goldfish. I find it weird that you have your own house but you don't have a pet. You have a perfect yard for a little dog. Like a—Chihuahua or a poodle."

"There's a raccoon that nests in the attic. I haven't seen him since I got back from Malibu, though."

"I'm pretty sure having a rodent nest in your walls doesn't count as a pet."

"I gave him a name and everything."

"What's his name?"

"Rocket. Because he used to shoot out of the hole in the roof like a rocket and shake the whole tree."

"That's a good name for a raccoon. Hopefully he comes back. I'd like to see him. Maybe he's hibernating. Do raccoons hibernate?"

"I have absolutely no idea. I'm afraid I don't know a whole lot about animals."

"What do you know about then? Like everyone has a thing, right? Everyone has one weird interest or skill. What's your thing?"

"Knives," I told him without even having to think about it. "I used to be really good with knives. I could hit a moving target on the mark every time. I even used to do tricks. I still have some upstairs too. Black titanium throwing knives. As sharp as razor blades."

"Why don't you do it anymore?" I paused and turned to face him. I was wearing a zippered hoodie, but I had a tank top on underneath. So I pulled the zipper down and slid the hoodie off of my shoulders to show him the scars. He hissed through his teeth. "Yeah, I guess that would do it. Need upper arm strength." I pulled the hoodie back up over my right shoulder when he squinted. "What happened to that one?" he asked, pointing to the scars on my left.

"I got shot," I reminded him. He shook his head.

"No, that one looks like you got shot. I could see the entry mark and the scars from surgery. That one." He pointed to the left one again. "That doesn't look like a bullet wound." I looked down at the scars on my left shoulder. Then I lifted the hoodie and looked at the right. The right had a clean entry wound and a single line where they'd cut me open to fix the shattered bone inside. The other one was a spiderweb of raised pink skin.

"Bullets have the tendency to explode on impact," I told him. He shook his head slowly and then met my confused expression.

"We've both seen some shit, Jo. I know what it looks like."

I ran my fingers over the scars. He said it in an almost accusatory way. As if he thought I'd be lying about it. I never paid much attention to them anymore. The shoulder still ached on occasion, but not nearly at the same level of pain as the other one. So I didn't think about it as much, let alone how I'd gotten them in the first place.

"I can tell you what it looks like," Bucky's voice said. I looked up at where he was standing behind Graham again. Only this time he wasn't holding a knife to the kid. But Graham jumped anyway.

"Shit," he whispered. I kept my eyes on Bucky.

"What does it look like to you?" I asked him. He moved his eyes over my right shoulder, where the scars he'd left on me were now hidden behind the sleeve of my hoodie. Then he moved to the left.

"It looks like you were shredded," he said. I shook my head.

"I was shot," I repeated.

"And whoever dug the bullet out either didn't know what the hell they were doing or they were trying to make you suffer." I pulled the sleeve back up and zipped the hoodie.

"I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation," I insisted. Then I left the kitchen to put the towels away.


	15. Chapter 15

Letting Graham give me the idea to sit everyone at the kitchen table was terrible. Dinner was awkward. I really just wanted Bucky and Graham to talk and possibly find some kind of common interests. Maybe they'd never learn to like each other, but if I could get them to tolerate each other I'd call it a win. After the first few minutes, I decided that was never going to happen. Graham was staring at his plate, pretending we weren't there. Bucky took the chair closest to the wall so he could watch everything, as usual. His shoulders were tense and his eyes were dark. He hardly touched his food at all, and I knew for a fact that he liked pizza.

"One time when I was a kid," Graham started as he picked an olive off of his slice of pizza, "my mom brought this guy home for dinner. It was the first time she'd dated anyone since my dad died. It was a lot like this. Very quiet. Very uncomfortable. Only I think the roles were reversed. Because he clearly wanted me to like him, she wanted me to like him, but it was obvious I never would. Now I think I know how he felt. You know—except he probably didn't feel like he was going to be murdered." Bucky only glanced at Graham like this was the most obscure story he'd ever heard. Then his eyes were back on me.

"Um…" I said. "So what happened? To the guy?" Graham shrugged.

"I guess he had a wife or something. Like they were in the process of divorcing but he didn't bother to tell my mom. She was really upset about it. Never saw him again."

"Well—um—I'm sure you guys have more in common than you think. You both have military backgrounds. That's something. Kind of." Graham looked up at me.

"It's completely different," he said.

"How is it different?" Bucky asked.

"I'm pretty sure you weren't a marine." Bucky shook his head. "See? Plus the whole—time period thing. Military was a lot different back then." Bucky froze and gave me another dark look. I shrugged.

"He would have figured it out eventually," I explained.

"You know who I am?" he asked Graham.

"She's right. I would have figured it out eventually. My dad was REALLY into Captain America when I was a kid. I mean—I didn't know much about you. But it wouldn't have taken a genius to figure it out." He looked down at his plate. "Actually, I never would have figured it out." Bucky cut his eyes to me again.

"Why?"

"I wanted him to understand the situation," I explained. "If he thought you were just some random guy off the street, he wouldn't have cared."

"I might have cared," Graham remarked.

"He didn't understand why we couldn't just take you to a hospital. And I didn't go into detail. I just—casually let him know what it was important for him to stay quiet."

"You know you're an easy target," Bucky said. "If I had been sent to kill you, I wouldn't even have to try very hard. You would have been dead the moment you walked into this house. Maybe even sooner."

"What?"

"They know everything about you. They were in your head. They'll know exactly how to get to you again."

"What exactly are you implying?"

"I'm saying he's too much of a coincidence. You just happened to find a kid who…"

"Twenty-three," Graham muttered. Bucky ignored him.

"Who needs a place to stay? They would have known what you would do. They could have set you up. They wouldn't even have to try very hard. You brought him into your home. You're telling him things you shouldn't be telling anyone." I sighed and dropped my slice of pizza back onto the plate. I was suddenly not hungry anymore.

"If they wanted me, they would just come and get me," I pointed out. "They would have no reason to set me up with some kid—sorry, twenty-three-year-old—to get into my house. I haven't told him anything they wouldn't already know. And he couldn't have come here hoping to find you. Because they tried to make damn sure that you wouldn't know who I was. There's a reason they haven't made a move yet. I'm fairly confident that when they do, they're not going to try and manipulate me into caring for them or sneak their way into my life. They're just going to show up and toss my ass into the back of a truck. Do you understand?"

"So why aren't you doing anything? Why are you making it so easy for them to take you?"

"What do you want me to do, Buck? You expect me to go back to Stark and hide behind my friends?"

"Yes, actually."

"Well, I'm not doing that again. I didn't go to Malibu to heal. I went to hide. And I don't want to do it anymore."

"You don't care? You're just going to let them win?"

"Honestly, Bucky, I wouldn't care if they came charging in the front door right now. Actually, no. I would care. But only because the two of you are here and I don't want you to get caught in the crossfire. But if you weren't, or I could be sure that you'd make it out safely, I wouldn't care. I don't care if they come. I don't care what they want from me. I just want them to hurry the hell up so I can figure out what I'm supposed to do with my life." I pushed myself away from the table and left the kitchen.


	16. Chapter 16

It was too early for me to go to bed on a typical night, but I was usually always tired anyway. So I changed into my sweats and crawled into bed. The house was silent at first until I heard the murmur of Graham and Bucky's voices in the kitchen below me. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but I could hear their tones. Graham used his usual lighthearted sarcastic voice and did most of the talking, of course. But every once in a while I could make out the deep and flat tone of Bucky responding.

I wasn't sure why I even wanted them to get along. Bucky would leave again. As soon as he was healed enough to move around with ease, he would disappear without a goodbye and I couldn't guarantee that I'd ever see him again. I just wanted him to believe that Graham wasn't out to get me. He needed to know there were still good people in the world. Sometimes a kid who needed a place to stay was just a kid who needed a place to stay. And in turn, I wanted Graham to trust Bucky. To want to help him or even just sympathize. Or at least to keep him secret.

Their conversation didn't last long before fading out. Then I could hear one of them cleaning up the kitchen. I figured it was Graham since Bucky never made very much noise. And then I heard him bang into the table and curse, and I knew for sure it was Graham.

I fell asleep to the sound of ringing in my ears and the quiet drone of the TV from far off.

Someone was shouting from far away. I opened my eyes and stared at the brick wall in front of me. I was shaking as I fought the urge to follow the voice. I was sure it was someone I knew and cared about. I also knew I was going to kill them. My feet moved forward anyway, following the frantic cries for a medic. I wasn't sure what led me to them. My instinct to heed that call, or if something much darker pushed me forward.

I made it back to the courtyard where Lieutenant Jimenez was shouting for me. He had a little girl propped up against a crumbled brick wall. She was bleeding from the stomach and he was doing everything he could to keep her alive. She needed medical attention. My attention. But my hands trembled as I lifted my heavy rifle. Jimenez hadn't spotted me yet, but the girl did. I saw her eyes shift to my face as I approached him from behind, raised the gun, and stopped.

I was screaming in my own mind to stop moving. And once I was there, with the gun just inches from his head, my body finally listened. My fingers shook as I lowered the weapon, and I looked back at the little girl. She didn't say anything and I couldn't tell what she was thinking, but he finally noticed the direction of her gaze and turned around to face me. He had no idea that just seconds ago I was telling myself not to kill him.

"Stay with her," he instructed. Then he took off at a run and disappeared around a corner.

I felt relief wash over me when he was gone. I could fight the urge to kill him. Whatever it was. I could do it. I dropped to the girl's side and pulled out my medical pack. I clutched a piece of cloth to the bleeding wound on her stomach and tried to think of something I could say to her that would explain why I'd almost killed my friend. But I knew she wouldn't be able to understand. So I said the only thing that might make any sense to her.

"You're going to be okay," I lied. I could see that she wasn't going to make it. Even if she did, she would never be free of this day and this moment. It would haunt her for the rest of her life. I just wished I could give her more time.

"Grenade!" someone shouted from down another alley. My heart dropped and I had no time to react before the explosion struck.

I came to halfway across the courtyard. I took a moment to recover from the blast. My ears were ringing as blood poured out of the one on the left. My face stung with tiny burns and scrapes. The little girl rested half buried under brick and ash just yards out of my reach.

I pushed myself up and stumbled to my feet. Captain Russell was the first to run out of the alley where the explosion had gone off. Our eyes met when he came to a stop. I knew that he was thinking about how I'd killed Tran. He probably already knew I'd killed Carlson too. Maybe he even knew I'd been seconds away from shooting his own lieutenant in the back of the head.

I expected my hands to move for the gun again, but I could feel that I had control over them now. My body felt drained and exhausted from fighting the urge to kill them. I didn't want to kill Russell, and I could see that he didn't want to kill me either. But he couldn't trust me not to turn on them again. So he lifted his gun in my direction. There was only a moment of hesitation before he pulled the trigger.

My shoulder ached when I woke up. I bolted upright and clutched at the old wound. Right where Bucky said it looked like I'd been shredded. I hated these new dreams. I'd seen that day a thousand times at night and in all my intrusive memories that shoved their way into my brain when I was tired or scared. But it was never like this. They were changing and I didn't believe it was my brain's way of making sense of what happened. I didn't think it was survivor's guilt.

I used to ask myself why the shooter hadn't killed me. He knew I was wearing armor. He was aware that shooting me in the shoulder wouldn't kill me. He could have shot me in the face, but he didn't. He aimed for my shoulder so that I could live. Because he never wanted to kill me. Because I was his friend.

The house had gone silent. I could no longer make out the sound of the TV or anyone in the kitchen below me. The neighbor's porch light had shut off and my room was dark and shaded. I climbed out of bed and tiptoed toward the door to pop it open. The door across the hall was shut, which meant Graham probably already went to bed too.

So I crept down the hallway and down the stairs. Bucky was lying on the couch on his side. He had his arm propped up under his head and the blanket resting at his hips. The streetlight shimmered through the blinds in the window behind him. Stripes of blue light lay scattered across his form. For a moment, I thought he must be sleeping. But then his eyes opened and he looked up at me. Neither of us spoke at first.

"Can't sleep?" he finally asked. I shook my head.

"No," I confirmed.

"I have them too." He moved his hand. I could see the metal reflect in the stripes of light and shadows as he pushed the blanket off of his hips. Then he scooted back against the couch, apparently making room for me in the tight space.

I didn't speak. I went to his side and laid down next to him. I had my back against his chest and he moved his arm so that I could rest my head on it. Then the blanket came down over the both of us. Only this time he made sure it covered my shoulders. I closed my eyes, feeling him breathing against the back of my neck. I just wanted him to hold me. I felt pathetic for wanting him to hold me.

"Do you ever see things that you thought couldn't be real—but you're starting to think otherwise?" I whispered.

"Every time," he replied. I could feel his voice rumble through my back and I wanted desperately to roll over and listen to his heart beating.

"How do you deal with it?"

He didn't answer. His metal hand came to rest around my body. It wasn't heavy, which meant he was making sure he didn't put too much weight on me. And even with the metal, his body made me so much warmer than I'd been in my own bed. I almost didn't need the blanket, but I wasn't going to ask him to move. I couldn't listen to his heart, but he had his arm around me and that was enough.

"If I figure it out—I'll let you know," he said.

* * *

Updating again today because  
1\. We're going to try to leave early tomorrow and I can't guarantee that I'll be able to update before we go.  
2\. I didn't want to leave you guys with a Jo/Bucky semi-argument and then be gone for a full week.  
3\. That last chapter was kind of short.  
4\. Squishy squishy.


	17. Chapter 17

The blast damaged my eardrum. I could feel it as the world went silent and all I could hear was the high pitched ringing that blocked out everything else. I could see bricks and ash shift as I moved out of the rubble at my feet. I could feel the warm wetness of blood as it dripped out of my ear and down my cheek. But there was freedom in the silence. I lifted my hands, examining them for scrapes and burns, and the first thing I noticed was that I had complete control over them. They were still shaking, but I no longer felt like I was fighting a battle with my own mind.

Captain Russell couldn't have known that. He just knew that I'd killed two members of his team and would likely kill more. He didn't know that I felt free again. So when he found me, he had to make sure I didn't get the chance to kill again. I could see him weigh his options out in his mind. He could kill me for what I'd done, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. So he shot me in the shoulder instead.

It was the Colonel that brought me out of my daze. I saw him run into the open courtyard where he was exposed and vulnerable to sniper fire. He hit the ground when a bullet struck his thigh. I knew I'd never be redeemed for the lives I'd taken, but I couldn't let another person die when I had the chance to save them.

So I started to crawl. My legs were too weak to carry me, and I'd lost too much blood to stand. I wasn't sure if I could reach him in time or what would happen when I did. I just knew that I had to try. I would never forgive myself if I didn't.

The grenade rolled into view before I reached him. I didn't know if it was a delayed explosion or a dud, but I reached for it and sent it back where it came from. It ignited in midair, and the explosion was loud enough to break through the ringing silence. I felt the heat of the blast as shards of metal and fire rained down over the courtyard. It took out half a building, killing the people who'd sent it.

The Colonel was yelling at me. I could make out to the sound of his shouts as I continued to crawl toward him. I knew he wanted me to get out of there, but I would use my damaged eardrum as an excuse to disobey his orders. I moved to his side, pulled myself up onto my knees, and examined the wound. He tried to shove me away, but I refused. I knew what I had to do to keep him alive, and I was going to try it.

He lost consciousness after I dug my fingers into the hole in his thigh. I felt the artery slipping between my fingers. I needed to pinch it. To hold off the bleeding long enough for it to form a clot. It would be dirty and messy, and he could end up with a severe infection in his blood, but I might be able to help him with that if I could keep him alive long enough to worry about it.

I could hear rapid gunfire and shouting from far off as the ringing began to fade. I could feel something trying to burrow its way back into my brain like a slippery little worm.

"Sever it," my mind instructed as the artery slipped between my fingers. I shook my head.

"I won't," I spoke out loud. I'd fought it once to save Jimenez. I could do it again. I couldn't save the others now, but I could still save him. I wasn't going to let it win.

The shouting grew louder, and my concentration began to slip. I looked up as Lieutenant Jimenez rushed down the road, yelling for me to get out of the courtyard. I couldn't hear his exact words, but he was waving his arms, and I could read his lips.

"They're coming!" he was saying as he motioned his hands for me to run. I felt my feet respond, and I managed to get myself standing. My hands moved for my gun, and I heard the voice again at the back of my head, slippery like an artery.

"Kill him."

So I lifted the gun and fired.

"Wake up, spooners," I heard someone say. Then I felt Bucky jolt behind me. His arm shot off of me in a flash, and I listened to the metal come into contact with his gun. "Jesus. I'm sorry," Graham was saying. "Where did you have that thing anyway?"

"Couch cushions," I mumbled as I pulled the blanket back over my head and buried my face into the warm crook of Bucky's arm. He relaxed and lowered his gun. I could feel him shove it back into the cushions. "I felt it in there when I was tucking the blanket in."

"And you couldn't have warned me?"

"What exactly did you expect me to tell you?"

"Fuck if I know. But it would be nice to walk into a room without someone holding a weapon to my face—or throat."

"Here's your warning then. He's always armed. Always."

"You startled me," Bucky added.

"Believe it or not, I managed to work that one out for myself," Graham retorted. I could hear his feet on the floor as he walked away. Presumably toward the kitchen. Bucky sighed and dropped his head back onto the arm of the couch.

"I'm not used to seeing you caught off guard," I noted.

"I was comfortable," he told me.

"Mm." I pulled the blanket down off of my face and blinked as my eyes adjusted to the light. "I have to get ready for work."

"Is that absolutely vital?"

"Unfortunately."

I moved his arm off of my waist and sat up. My eyes still hadn't adjusted to the bright sunlight filtering through the blinds. I could hear Graham rummaging around in the kitchen for something to eat. He was apparently having no trouble making himself at home. Bucky stayed on the couch behind me, and when I turned around to check on him, his eyes were closed, and his arm tucked back under his head. It was unbelievable to me that he could lie in that position all night and not regret it in the morning. My shoulders were aching, my neck was stiff, I must have changed my position at least twenty times.

"I need to check your stitches," I told him as I stood up and everything cracked and ached.

"They're fine," he mumbled. He didn't bother to open his eyes.

"I might have pulled them out while we were sleeping."

"They're fine."

"Just roll onto your back. You don't even have to do anything." He took a deep breath and let it go. Then he readjusted himself onto his back so I could examine the sutures.

I took my seat beside him again. I wasn't too worried about the smaller ones since those wounds would likely heal on their own. It was the big one that worried me. I knew it was unlikely that it would get infected, and he'd probably heal quickly. But there had been so much internal damage and blood loss that I couldn't say how long it would take.

"I never took you for lazy," I muttered.

"Mm," he replied, flopping his arm over his eyes to block out the light.

I put one hand on his chest to balance myself on the narrow seat and moved my other thumb just below the wound to check the swelling. His skin tensed, and he whispered something in a language I couldn't understand. It sounded like Russian. I glanced at him, but it was hard to judge his expression with his arm covering half his face.

"Does it hurt when I do that?" I questioned.

"No," he replied in a flat and emotionless tone.

"When does it hurt?"

"When I'm moving. Or breathing."

I nodded and moved my hand up to the second biggest set of stitches. I didn't really need to check them since I could see that none of them had pulled, and they already appeared to be healing. But I was testing a theory. So I gently ran my finger over his skin below the stitches, and he reacted the same way. His stomach clenched, and he held his breath, but he didn't speak.

"Hurts?" I asked.

"No," he replied.

"Then why do you keep holding your breath?"

"Your fingers are cold." He was lying. Lying up against him all night was like lying on a furnace. I'd actually thrown the blankets off more than once.

"Mm-hmm. I'm sure."

"The kid is in the other room."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Just making an observation."

I reached forward and pressed my lips against the line of his jaw, just an inch from his mouth. I would have gone for his cheek if his arm wasn't in the way, but he didn't move it until he felt me. He lifted it over his head, exposing his blue eyes to the light. They searched my face, but I kept my distance.

"Please be here when I get back tonight?" I asked him. He moved his hand again, this time trailing his knuckles along my cheek and moving the hair that had fallen in my face.

"I will be," he said. I stood up and stepped away from the couch. He dropped his hand again.

"Waffles or cereal?" I asked him.

"Either is fine," he replied. So I nodded and spun around to head toward the kitchen, but ran right into Graham instead.

"Wha!" he said when we collided.

"Oh jeez, I didn't hear you. Sorry," I told him as he tried to regain his balance.

"How did you not hear me? I stop like an elephant wherever I go."

"I heard him," Bucky said from behind me. I turned back around to glare at him, but he just gave me that half-smile and covered his eyes with his arm again.

* * *

I'm back! *Dances*

Uh... I saw The Bronze ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), got a tattoo, I went to Disneyland, overdrafted my bank account, had a bad reaction to something and got a rash on my face, got stuck in a snowstorm on the way home and spent 16 hours on the road. But it was good times.


	18. Chapter 18

I really wasn't looking forward to working and leaving Bucky at home all day. I would have canceled my meetings if it wasn't for the fact that so many people looked forward to them. And I also didn't want anyone to become suspicious about what was going on in my house. So once we were all ready for the day, Graham and I said goodbye and headed to the VA.

"So what were you guys talking about last night?" I asked as I drove. "I could hear you from my room."

"Oh, just making some observations mostly. I did most of the talking," he explained. "He pretty much just grunted at me and contemplated the many ways he could make my death look like an accident."

"What kind of observations?"

"Um—well—I kind of mentioned that you seemed upset, and the right thing to do would probably be to talk to you. And he asked why I didn't go talk to you. And I said 'Because I'm not the one who made her mad, dumbass.' And then he put me in a headlock and threatened to put my hand down the garbage disposal." I was silent for half a minute.

"Are you joking? I can't tell if you're joking or not."

"I'm not."

"Christ."

"Anyway, he probably would have gone to talk to you if he could get up the stairs. He didn't say that was the problem, but I'm pretty sure it was."

"So—that's it? That's all you guys talked about?"

"No, of course not. Once I was sure that I wasn't going to lose my hand I mentioned the—you know what we talked about before—the starry eyes thing. And he was kind of confused about that. I don't think he's used to people being able to read his expressions."

"He's probably not used to having visible expressions. It took me weeks to get him to smile. Even longer to make him laugh."

"Yeah, well that too. But it seems almost like—he's just not used to people paying much attention to him at all." I sighed heavily.

"He's not used to people treating him like he's human."

"That makes sense."

"I also think that's why—we had the almost thing. I don't think it was genuine. Just that I was the first person to show him any—warmth." He shook his head.

"Nah, it's not like that. He doesn't look at you like you're the only person who shows him warmth. He looks at you like you're the most beautiful and important person in his life."

I didn't have anything to say to that. I knew Bucky looked at me differently, but mostly because he just kind of scowled at everyone else. Except for Steve. And I knew there was a bit of affection in there, even if he didn't understand why. But I couldn't imagine it being anything like that.

"I told him that," Graham continued a moment later.

"You told him what now?" I asked.

"What I just told you. I told him that he looks at you like you're the most beautiful and important person in his life."

"Oh." I almost asked him how Bucky reacted to that, but I figured I already knew. He would have just put the scowl back on his face or pretended to be emotionless before leaving at the first chance.

"Do you want to know what he said?" Graham asked.

"Wait, he actually had a response for that?"

"Yeah, he did."

"Well—does he want you to tell me what he said?" He shrugged a bony shoulder.

"Probably not. Maybe I should just keep it to myself. That way he doesn't kill me. You should ask him then. He'll probably tell you." I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.

"Maybe."

"He also accused me of having a thing for you," he added.

"Did he really?"

"Yeah, and I told him, 'That's crazy, man. She obviously likes guys built like fucking tanks. And not puny kids."

"You did not tell him that." He snorted and shook his head.

"No, I'm just fucking with you. I just said you can't really keep things like that to yourself, you know? You never really know what's going to happen. It's always better to be honest about how you feel. Just in case you never get a chance to say it."

"Sounds like you're speaking from experience."

"That's exactly what he said. Word for word." I glanced at him. He was staring out the window at passing buildings, but not really focusing on anything. Like he was thinking about another time and place.

"So who was it?" I asked.

"Girl I knew in the Marines," he explained.

"What happened to her?"

"She stepped on an IED."

"Jeez. I'm sorry." He shrugged like it was no big deal, but it was evident to me now why he was so happy and jovial all the time. It was how he masked his pain. I knew a lot of people like that.

"I just kind of figured, you know," he started. "You still like him, and he still likes you. Even if you think he doesn't remember. It's obvious. Maybe if I say something you'll both stop being so dumb about it."

"It's a little more complicated than that."

"Isn't it always? That's the thing about people like us. You meet someone you really like, and you don't tell them because you think you have all the time in the world. Then they step on a bomb and die, and you spend the rest of your life regretting all the times you could have told them but you were too dumb and scared to do it." I nodded slowly.

"I guess you're right."

"Just try and give me a heads up if you guys decide to do the nasty."

"The what?" He turned to give me a look that clearly said, "Don't play with me," and also, "You're full of shit. You know exactly what I'm talking about," at the same time.

"I'm not an idiot," he said.

"I never said that you were. I'm just curious about how you came to that conclusion." I had my eyes on the road ahead of me, but I could still see him staring at me from the corner of my eye. The expression was still on his face. He was silent and I finally just stuck my hand on his face and shoved him away.

"I'm pretty sure if I wasn't in your house you probably would have done it on the couch this morning," he told me as he righted himself.

"I was checking his stitches."

"And sleeping next to him."

"I had a nightmare."

"That's convenient." I scoffed, but I had nothing more than that. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about it. A lot. "I just want a warning is all."

"I'm not going to give you a warning. What the hell do you want me to do? Put a sock on the doorknob?"

"At least let me borrow your MP3 player."

"You can have it. I never use it."

"I don't want to keep it. I just want to be able to face the two of you in the morning without wanting to die."

"Don't act like you're a saint, okay? You're a twenty-three-year-old male. Not an angelic ten-year-old." He shrugged and turned to look at the road.

"Still don't want to hear it."

"Just keep the damn MP3 player. It was a gift from Stark. It can hold like a bazillion songs and movies. He already loaded it up with his entire music collection and like seven full movies. I literally never use it."

"Fine. But only because I'm curious about what kind of music Iron Man listens to."

"Take a wild guess. A lot of Black Sabbath and AC/DC."

"That doesn't surprise me at all. The MP3 player doesn't turn into anything, does it? Like it's not going to inject me with poison if someone other than you uses it, right?"

"Unfortunately it's just an MP3 player. Though he did design it so I wouldn't be surprised if it could turn into a small robot."

"That would be radical." I just shrugged.

* * *

More Q&A with Graham.

I'm currently reading Witch Hunter Angela: Secret Wars and I just... why can't Bucky be happy in ANY of Marvel's universes? Why you always gotta fuck him up and make him the most tragic ass character in the multiverse?

I feel like I need to write him a super fluffy story just to make myself feel better.

At least, in all these universes everyone can agree on one thing. Bucky is super hot. (I swear they called him handsome at least once a page.)


	19. Chapter 19

I actually believed that Bucky would still be at my house when I got home, but I was still eager for the day to end. Though this time I tried not to rush anyone. I still felt guilty about rushing them the day before. So I let the meeting take its natural course before Graham and I hurried to get packed up and out to the parking garage.

Just like the day before, we passed my therapist on the way out. I made a quick promise to set up an appointment with her and then we hurried to my car. But as we were both getting our seatbelts on, something dawned on me, and I felt idiotic for not mentioning it before.

"Wait, we see the same doctor?" I asked once Graham and I were on our way.

"Yeah," he replied.

"When was the last time you saw her?" He shrugged.

"I dunno. Like a week ago."

"She didn't know that you didn't have a place to stay?"

"I didn't tell her."

"Well—that's dumb. Don't do that. She could have helped you—But second, you're cool with not telling her things?" He looked at me and finally seemed to grasp what I was asking.

"I won't tell her about him. Or anything. We don't even really talk. I usually just talk about my books and she occasionally asks me how I'm doing. It's all very dull."

"It's just that—I'm very pro-therapy—and I think it's important for you to have someone to talk to. But—I uh…"

"I understand. You don't want anyone to know about him."

"It's not just that, though—my last therapist worked for SHIELD. Well, it turned out she worked for HYDRA. I spent five years of my life developing a relationship with this woman, just for her to turn out to be the bad guy, you know? And I mean—not everyone worked for HYDRA, but she did. And apparently, she had no trouble feeding information about me and other people right to them. And the fact that she knew me so—intimately—really messed with my head. For all I know, HYDRA knows every single thing about me. And it's just—hard to trust anyone after that."

"I won't tell her, I promise. Besides, it's not like I'm alone anymore anyway. I have someone to talk to now."

He was gazing out of the window again and didn't see me wince. I didn't want the responsibility of filling in as his therapist. I wasn't even sure I was doing a good enough job organizing these meetings. And now he was living in my house and depending on me for more than just food and shelter. I could handle the physical dependence because it was easy to bounce back from if you lost it. It was the emotional dependence I wasn't prepared for. And I hated that I was asking him to keep information from the one person who was actually qualified to help him in that department.

"Yeah," I said anyway. "You can tell me anything."

"Her name was Janey. I always thought that was weird. I thought her name was like Jane and everyone just called her Janey as a nickname. But it wasn't. It was her legal name."

"It's a pretty name."

"We were kind of the underdogs, so we stuck together. I was there when she died. It was the same explosion that almost got my leg chopped off. It happened so fast that I didn't even know she was dead until I woke up after surgery. Now I have this stupid bum knee to remind me every day."

"I'm so sorry, Graham."

"That's why I told you not to be dumb about the Bucky thing. Sometimes it's hard to admit things, but you know—it's harder to tell someone how you feel when they're dead."

"That's a pretty sound piece of advice."

"Meh." He shrugged again, quickly bottling it back up. He had his arm resting on the door as he looked out of the window at the passing city lights.

"Can I ask you a question?" I spoke after a few minutes of silence.

"Sure," he replied, not looking at me.

"Did you love her?" He took a long moment to answer.

"Yeah, and the worst part is—I think she loved me too."

"Would it have made it easier? If she didn't?" He thought about this for a long time before finally shaking his head.

"No," he said.

When we got home, we found Bucky on the couch. He was leaning against the back of it, looking more uncomfortable than he had in the morning. He didn't seem to be watching TV or resting at all. He looked like he was in pain. I dropped my bag on the floor as Graham got the door shut. Then I approached Bucky and stopped right between him and the coffee table.

"What did you do?" I asked. He had his hand on the larger section of stitches on his stomach. I still hadn't bothered to find him a shirt so he was sitting perfectly still with a bare chest, looking like a god in the golden sunlight. He moved his hand away from the stitching to show me a dark smear of blood. "What happened?" I moved to his side to examine them.

"I went to the kitchen," he told me.

"Bullshit. Tell me the truth." I looked back up at him, and he had his jaw clenched tight.

"I'll go get the first aid kit," Graham said. Then he disappeared down the hall.

"You said you wouldn't leave," I reminded Bucky.

"No, I said I'd be here when you got back," he replied. I groaned.

"You're not ready to leave, do you understand? I know you're probably bored out of your mind here all day by yourself, but you won't be able to defend yourself out there."

"It's not about defending myself. It's—time sensitive." I reached up to cup his face in my hand. His jaw was still tense, but he seemed to relax when he looked back at me.

"You have to heal. Healing is time sensitive too. I need you here." He just dropped his head back onto the couch and pinched his eyes shut.

"I went back for my backpack," he told me. "And I was going to try and fix the mirror."

"Don't worry about the mirror. And I didn't know you had a backpack."

"I dropped it in the yard when I came over the fence."

The bag was tucked into the space between the couch and the armchair. Just within his reach. Since he hadn't shown up dirty and disgusting, I figured he must have had supplies somewhere. But he was still wearing the sweats I gave him and nothing else. That I knew of.

And okay, I did know because I looked.

"I have the next few days off. It'll give you time to rest and then we can talk about whatever it is you're eager to get back to, okay?" He didn't answer. Graham clunked back into the living room, and I moved away from Bucky and took a seat on the coffee table. He set the first-aid kit down beside me. "Thanks," I told him.

"No worries," he said as he turned back toward the kitchen. "I'm gonna—go see if there's anything I can make for dinner. I was always good at making things like—chicken nuggets."

Once he was gone, I moved toward Bucky again. I set my knee between his legs and leaned my elbow on the back of the couch. I ran my fingers over his scruffy face. He didn't open his eyes, but he moved his head to the side, facing me without looking at me. He seemed comfortable just knowing I was there. I wanted to kiss him again, but I was still upset that he'd tried to leave.

"Hey," I whispered. "Give me time. Please?" His eyes opened, and he nodded slowly.

"They're coming for you," he told me. "They're going to take—everything from you. That's what they do." I moved back and reached for the first-aid kit. I needed to fix the stitches that he'd ripped and clean up the blood, but I wasn't ready to talk about it yet.

"You need to take it easy for at least a week," I explained. "That would be my usual recommendation for basic stitches. I can't say with a wound that deep and accelerated healing. I'll know when I see it healing." He wrapped his hand around my wrist as I reached for something to clean the blood with. Then he leaned forward, squinting from the pain of the movement. He didn't stop until his face was just an inch away from mine. He glanced at my lips, and I almost thought he was going to kiss me, but his lips were still pinched, and he didn't look happy.

"We need to talk about it," he said. "Time sensitive." I shook my head.

"We'll talk about it later."

* * *

Sorry for being late today. I was watching ~*The Force Awakens*~


	20. Chapter 20

Graham ended up making dinner, only we didn't have his "specialty" of frozen chicken nuggets. So he went with something he found in the cupboard and tried to tell me it was his mom's super-secret alfredo recipe. And then sheepishly admitted it just came from a box.

This time, I didn't try to make anyone socialize or even get along. We all ate in the living room, and Bucky and Graham both seemed more comfortable about the arrangement. When we finished, I strictly forbade Bucky from leaving the couch unless he had to use the bathroom and then Graham helped me clean up the kitchen. Then he got comfortable in the armchair with a book while Bucky and I watched a movie from the couch.

Bucky and I had only ever watched TV a total of one time. We watched TVland reruns through most of the day. I made popcorn, and we had candy, and then I kissed him. He seemed different. He was more lost before. He couldn't sit still for very long. He didn't like the idea of being forced to stare at the same place for hours, and he sat rigid and stiff as if he was anxious and uncomfortable. The Bucky sitting on my couch now at least appeared more familiar with the concept, if not downright comfortable. But I couldn't tell if he was actually enjoying himself or if he'd just given up because he knew he couldn't do anything even if he wanted to.

We kept our distance in the beginning. He was clear about how he felt, but he stayed away. He knew it wasn't an option, and he didn't pursue it. I'd rejected the idea completely until I couldn't deny it anymore. I had one of those moments like Graham described, where I decided not to lie anymore and to just enjoy what I had while I still had it. But it was gone as quickly as I got it. I had him for one whole night and then they came for him.

Something changed in the months we were apart. He lost his memories again, and I wasn't sure how much he was regaining this time. I just knew he felt more comfortable with me. And if Graham was correct, he must have still felt something. Even if he couldn't recall specific memories. He must have known that more happened between us. Just once.

I could remember everything. And I thought about him a lot over the months. I was hurt, and I was worried. I was concerned about his safety. Somewhere along the line that affection had grown deeper. So it wasn't like he was just some guy I barely knew and only slept with once. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to rest my head on his shoulder and take advantage of the fact that I had him while I had him. I just didn't know how he would feel about that. He might have felt something, but he might not remember enough to want to try again. Or risk the possibility of it evolving even more and thus making the separation even more painful than the last time.

I was exhausted, though. Somehow over the course of the movie I sunk deeper into my seat so that I was half lying on the couch with my feet on the coffee table. Bucky barely moved the entire time. So I was briefly startled when he lifted his hand and stretched it over the back of the couch behind me. His fingers tapped on my shoulder, and he motioned for me to come closer. I caved immediately. He didn't have to ask me twice. I leaned against the uninjured part of his bare chest and shut my eyes. He was so warm and so close.

"Go to bed," he whispered. I felt his hair tickle against my face. I must have looked like a zombie. I didn't get a whole lot of sleep even though I'd been right where I wanted to be. Nightmares and couches tended to have that effect. I shook my head anyway. Lying on his chest seemed a much better place to be than in my bed by myself.

"I'm all right," I replied, but I kept my eyes closed.

"Go to sleep, Johanna." He said my name with its proper pronunciation. Like my parents and my grandparents. Yo-honna. Not Jo-hanna like everyone else. Even Steve, who'd actually taken the time to ask me how to correctly pronounce it, still called me Jo-hanna. It was weirdly personal hearing it from someone not part of that small, close, family group.

"No," I argued.

"I'll still be here in the morning." I believed him, but I still didn't want to leave.

"If you guys are going to make out, could you at least wait for me to leave the room?" Graham remarked from the armchair. My eyes popped open, and I finally slipped away from Bucky. But only so I could reach for the pillow on the other end of the couch and throw it at him. "Wha!" he said when it hit the side of his head and bounced off. At least I still had good aim.

"We're not going to make out, you nerd," I snapped. "I guess I'm going to bed."

I stood up, and Bucky's hand slid off of my shoulder. He dragged his fingers down my back before I was out of reach. That just made it even harder to pull away.

I made it to the bottom of the stairs before I turned back around to face him. Graham was trying to find the page that he'd lost when I threw a pillow at him, but Bucky had his eyes on me. And it looked like he knew exactly what I was thinking. I wanted to ask him to come with me, but I definitely wasn't sure how he'd feel about that. And he probably wouldn't have been able to make it up the stairs without Graham's help anyway. I wouldn't want to hear Graham's comments about it either. So I just gave him a quick nod goodnight and headed up to my room.


	21. Chapter 21

I couldn't sleep. And not because I was having nightmares or unusually vivid dreams. The problem was that I couldn't even fall asleep, despite how tired I was. I heard the TV shut off later and the sound of Graham clunking up the stairs and into the spare bedroom. I waited a little while longer, hoping to give him enough time to fall asleep. Then I left my bed and crept down the stairs.

Bucky was lying on the couch, only this time he had already pressed up against the back of it as if he knew I'd be joining him. He looked like he was asleep, though, and I didn't want to bother him. So I tried to lift the blanket and climb in beside him without waking him up. I was facing him this time, and his arm instantly moved to give me something to rest my head on. He pulled the blanket up over my shoulders.

"We need to talk about it," he said in a low rumbly voice as I got comfortable against his chest.

"I don't want to," I replied.

"You can't avoid it forever."

"Try me." He rested his chin on the top of my head.

"Why are you fighting it?"

"Because if I face it, then I'll have to do something about it. And my only options right now are to fight or hide, and I'm not capable of either of those things."

"What makes you think you're incapable? You have powerful friends."

"Friends who would lock me up if it meant keeping me safe, even if I had to be miserable."

"They could teach you how to fight."

"And do what exactly? I can't shoot a gun without hesitating. I can't lift either of my arms up very far. I can't even function most days without half a gallon of coffee. I can barely use a knife anymore."

"You have powerful friends," he repeated.

"And the more people who get involved, the more people who can wind up hurt. I'm not going to risk anyone else just to keep myself safe. Least of all my sister. The farther from her I am, the safer she is. I already feel bad enough just getting you and Graham involved."

"I was already involved. It's my fault."

"It isn't your fault."

"You know that's not true." I leaned on my elbow so I could look down at him.

"Buck, what do they want me for?" I asked him. He shut his eyes again, and he looked like he wanted to rub them in frustration. But his only free hand was metal so he kept it on my hip instead.

"There have only been two instances I can remember where they asked me to bring someone in alive. You and a biological research engineer in nineteen-eighty-four. Her husband was a special ops soldier. It took me a year to track them down. And when I finally located her, she jumped off of a bridge into oncoming traffic. She knew what they wanted her for, and she chose to die instead. They never told me what it was. Not that I can remember."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Because I have reason to believe her husband was Daryl Russell." He opened his eyes again and looked up at me. I shook my head slowly before I moved off of the couch and sat down on the coffee table. My living room was dark, and the only light came from the glowing stripes through the blinds.

"It's a fairly common name," I tried.

"I wouldn't have told you if I had any reason to believe it was someone else."

"I'm still not ready to talk about it." I stood up and headed toward the kitchen to get a glass of water. I wasn't thirsty, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but I needed a distraction until I could get him to stop talking.

It wasn't enough. I heard his hand on the wall in the hallway as he tried to balance himself. I wasn't sure if he did it to let me know he was coming or just because he was still having trouble walking. When I turned back around, he was standing just behind me. Only inches away.

"Whatever it is they want," he started, "it has nothing to do with me now. Your records, your history, most of it is incomplete. I've been trying to put the pieces together, but there just isn't enough. Which makes me think that someone already went through the trouble of removing whatever it is. All I know is that information is only missing when it's significant. And they've been doing this for a very long time. So I think it means they've wanted you for just as long. They just didn't know it was you they were looking for. Until I walked into your life and shined the light on you. Which makes this my fault."

I was pushing to breathe through the heaviness in my chest. I still didn't want to talk about it. Especially if it went that deep into my past. It was easy for me to believe they only wanted me as a bartering tool to use against their precious asset. But if it ran much deeper than it was going to be far more painful.

I thought back to my last dream. My last memory of the day when I was shot. I'd seen the shooter's face a thousand times in my head, but now I couldn't recall it. I couldn't remember any distinct features. Just a generic face. No hair color or anything that set him apart. Now I could see the image of Russell's face clear in my mind. I knew the exact shade of his dark hair in the sun. The sweat and dirt and the spattering of Tran's blood on his face. The look caught between concern and hesitation. Right before he shot me.

Not a shoot to kill, I reminded myself. Just to get me down. The one piece of the puzzle I'd never been able to make sense of. Why hadn't the shooter killed me? Why didn't he aim for my face? Because he just wanted me to stop killing.

"Why would…" I started as I looked back at Bucky. I could see the glow of the neighbor's porch light on his bare skin. He had that emotionless, but stern, mask back on his face. "Why would Russell, if it is the same Russell, why would he deliberately tamper with my records?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked. "To protect you." I moved passed him and turned back to the hallway. "Johanna?" he said when I reached the doorway. I paused but didn't look back at him. "Russell's history has as many holes as yours. But his life didn't start until nineteen-eighty-four."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"It means Daryl Russell is an alias. Whoever he was before then—I haven't been able to figure it out. That's what I've been trying to do." I nodded slowly and then continued on my way.

"Let's just get some sleep."

I could tell that Bucky wouldn't be able to make it up the stairs. He could barely walk down the hall without having to hold onto the walls for support. His face was emotionless, but his jaw tightened every time he moved. His steps were still careful and cautious. And once he finally reached the couch, he nearly collapsed beside me. I stood to make room for him to lie down. I would have just gone back to bed, but I didn't want to spend the night without him. He didn't fit on the whole couch very well, but he made no complaints as I took my place beside him again. He pulled the blanket back over us, and I pressed my hand against the row of stitches on his stomach.

"What exactly happened? It was a government facility, wasn't it? Was anyone hurt?" I inquired.

"It was dirty," he told me. "I was trying to find information. I don't know if anyone got hurt. There were no casualties on the news."

"Information about what?"

"Russell and his wife." I nodded slowly and felt his arm come back around me. "He disappeared after you were discharged. No sign of him. Which means he's probably using another alias. He's good at hiding. And I don't have the same resources that I had before."

"I saw him maybe two years ago? At a funeral. He gave me a book."

"Do you still have it?"

"Yeah, it's on the shelf."

He sighed heavily. I couldn't see his face, but I was almost sure that his eyes were closed. I'd never seen him look so tired before. I knew he slept when he could, but he woke easily and never seemed to require caffeine to stay on his feet like I did. Steve was like that too so it wasn't unexpected. But now he seemed exhausted all the time. He'd fall asleep even when I was in the room. He limped around my house and lounged on the couch. He sighed. I'd never heard him sigh before. His pain must be much worse than he was letting on.

"Hurts still, doesn't it?" I asked him as I moved my hand back up his chest and felt his skin tense.

"Yes," he admitted.

"We'll look at the book in the morning. Try to get some rest. I'll leave you alone if you want."

"I sleep better when you're here."

"Why?" He took a deep breath before answering.

"Because I wouldn't be able to get to you quickly if you were upstairs."

"Because you don't trust Graham."

"I don't trust anyone."

"But you trust me?"

"I trust my gut."

"And what is it telling you?"

"That you have good intentions." I guess I couldn't argue. I just nuzzled in closer and kept my hand on his chest over his heart.


	22. Chapter 22

Even though the couch was uncomfortable with two people, one of whom was pretty tall, we managed to fall asleep without a problem. The only issue we faced at all was when Bucky woke up with a start, and his first instinct was to shove me away from him. So I woke up being knocked off of the couch and onto the floor between it and the coffee table.

"Shit," Bucky said as he peered over the edge of the couch and I reached up to check my head for blood. "I'm sorry."

"I've never heard you cuss before," I noted. He reached his metal arm down to help me back up.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Banged my elbow on the coffee table, but I'm sure I'll live." He helped me back onto the couch and sat up so he could examine my elbow. I could already tell that nothing was wrong with it, but I let him check anyway. "What happened?" I asked him. He shook his head.

"Remember when you said you see things you thought couldn't be real? Or maybe you just don't want to believe they're real."

"Yeah, I understand." He continued to run his fingers over my elbow even though there was nothing left but a pink mark and a fading ache. "What do you see when it happens?"

"I see the people I killed. Sometimes I see things I know can't be real. I've seen myself kill him a thousand times."

"Steve?" He nodded.

"This time, it was you."

"You saw yourself killing me?"

"I saw myself shoot you." Then he looked back at me. I could see that he didn't remember. He had no idea. There was such a look of innocence on his face before he read my expression and his eyebrows rose. "It was real," he stated.

"I don't know if what you saw was real but…" He moved his hand away from my elbow and into the collar of my shirt. He pulled it aside to expose the scars. His thumb grazed over the surgery line.

"I did this to you."

"You saved my life."

"How?"

"You bought me time on a technicality. They told you to shoot me. Not to kill me."

"I'm sure it was implied."

"Do you think? They want me alive, remember?" I shrugged. "Doesn't matter anyway. You gave me enough time and a big enough distraction to hold them off until Stark got to me."

"I shouldn't have…"

"There was no other way."

"You believe that?"

"Yes." He took a deep breath and released my shirt.

"That wasn't the first time I've seen you," he told me. "Sometimes I see myself choke you until you turn blue. Sometimes I'm holding your head under water. What happens if I lose control again, and that becomes—real? What if I make it real?"

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

"Wanting to believe something isn't the same as knowing. All I did was knock you off the couch. What if I'd thrown you across the room or snapped your neck?"

"I wouldn't let you." I knew I sounded naïve, but I didn't want to believe he was capable of that anymore. I wanted to trust that he could stop himself before it went too far. Even if I didn't entirely believe that myself.

"You wouldn't have had enough time to stop me."

"I'm not going to let you go, Buck," I snapped.

He paused and studied my face. The sky was growing lighter by the second. I was almost embarrassed about how those words had spilled out of my mouth before I could stop them. I didn't know what made me say it. We really didn't know each other all that well. My only defense was that I could claim the feelings were still platonic. I couldn't love him romantically yet, but I cared enough about him to love him platonically. And I'd hang onto that until I knew how to deal with the fact that I desperately wanted to kiss him. And I hadn't even bothered to find him a shirt even though I knew I still had the ones he left behind.

"Why?" he finally questioned. I knew he was going to ask, and I was angry at myself for not preparing an answer while he was quiet.

"Because," I started. "I think—some people are worth holding onto."

"Even me? You know nothing about me."

"I know that Steve loves you, and that's good enough for me."

"I ruined your life."

"Don't say that. You didn't ruin my life. You gave me a purpose. I had nothing before I met you."

"And what do you have now?" I put my hands on his shoulders but looked away at the floor instead of his face.

"Something I don't want to lose again," I admitted slowly.

"Would you fight for it?" he asked. I opened my mouth to speak but stopped when I heard a door open upstairs. Then I pulled away from him and stood to my feet.

"I'll get the coffee started."

I wasn't ready to answer that question. I knew he wasn't asking me to fight for him or whatever we might possibly have going on between us. He was asking me if I was willing to fight against HYDRA if I had something I thought was worth holding onto. Did that mean I'd be ready to defend myself if they came for me? Would I be willing to hide behind my friends and allow them to protect me? Or would I go away so that he could run and not be burdened by my vulnerability?

I wasn't sure that I could do any of those things.

* * *

So teeny tiny. I would have added it to the next chapter but it didn't feel right and might have been too long if I did. So I left it as is.


	23. Chapter 23

My house was an unusually boring place. When I was by myself, I just watched a lot of TV and took naps in the middle of the day. But now I had two guests to entertain, and I didn't have the slightest idea about how to keep them busy. Thankfully, Graham was fully capable of keeping himself occupied. He ended up spending half the morning mowing the yard even though I insisted that he didn't need to. But Bucky wasn't as easy to keep busy. Mostly because he couldn't sit still for very long. He followed me into the kitchen when I started breakfast, and I had to give him a long lecture about ripped stitches just to make him sulk back to the couch. He seemed miserable.

Then I remembered the night before when I mentioned that Russell had given me a book and Bucky was interested in looking at it. So while he was silently sulking on the couch, I went to the shelf to find it. It was the first one Graham picked up when he got there, and he'd shoved it back into place and abandoned it in favor of something else. I located it and tossed it onto the couch beside Bucky. Ten minutes later he asked me for a pen and busied himself by reading and scribbling in a notebook for the rest of the day.

I didn't ask him what he was up to. I never even cracked the book open. I wasn't even sure what it was about and why he felt it was interesting enough to take notes. If that's even what he was doing. Every time me or Graham walked into the living room, he would casually move the notebook out of sight and barely acknowledge us beyond brief eye contact or a nod.

After we finished dinner I tried to get them to watch another movie with me. But Graham had gotten into whichever book he decided to read, and Bucky was still busy with the book Russell gave me. So I sat on the couch beside him until I got bored enough to attempt sleep.

"I'll see you guys tomorrow," I said.

"Eh," Graham replied in acknowledgment. Bucky looked up like he was confused or had lost track of time. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs again as he glanced between me, the book, and Graham.

"I need to speak to you," he told me. "Alone."

"We can talk later," I assured him.

"Where's the MP3 player at again?" Graham quietly muttered from the armchair. He was stretched across it with his feet within Bucky's reach. He was either very trusting or not very bright. I shot him a glare even though he wasn't looking at me. He turned a page, and I wanted to chuck another pillow at his head.

"On the desk in your room," I growled. Then I turned to head up the stairs.

"Thank you," he called after me in a singsong voice.

"Bite me."

"I've never actually been into that."

"Oh, for the love of God."

"Ouch!" I heard him yelp from below. "What was that for?"

"Show some respect," Bucky warned. Then I smiled to myself. Graham definitely learned his lesson about keeping his feet so close to Bucky's arm.

"Alright. Alright. Sorry. It was a joke."

"I could kill you with that remote control."

"Alright, I get it. I'm sorry."

Once I was back in my room, I realized I didn't want to be there. Or at least I didn't want to be alone. I didn't really want to talk about whatever Bucky wanted to discuss with me. But I still wanted to talk to him. I spent over half a year wondering where he was and if he was okay. And now he was downstairs, and I was upstairs instead of with him. But I didn't want to invite him into my room either. But only because I didn't want Graham to make any stupid comments about the MP3 player. Or that I wanted Bucky in my room for any reason other than I just wanted to talk to him.

Which wasn't entirely true, but I didn't want him to know that.

So I got ready for bed, and then I laid there for a long time staring at the shadows and thinking. I almost wished I'd brought a book. I wished I'd gotten back into reading again so I had something pass the time. I wasn't even sure about what I was waiting for. I just knew I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't sit in the living room watching TV. I was bored with my life.

I stared at the shadows on my ceiling until Graham walked up the stairs to his room. I wasn't sure if he'd actually use the MP3 player, but I was hoping he was too distracted to hear me if I got up. I waited a few more minutes to give him a chance to get to bed. I didn't know how long he took to fall asleep, but I was hoping he was listening to music at least.

I climbed out of my bed and opened my bedroom door. I listened, but the house was silent. There was still a light shining from downstairs, so I figured Bucky was still awake. I crept down the hall and turned to walk down when I paused. He was already on the stairs, clutching at the banister as he tried to pull himself up.

"What are you doing?" I asked as I rushed down to his side. "You shouldn't be moving."

"I needed to talk to you about the book," he told me.

"Come on."

I wrapped my arm around his ribs and tried to help him up the stairs. I wasn't very much help at all, but we managed to make it to the top, and he could walk the rest of the way on his own. When we reached my bedroom, I shut the door behind us and turned around to face him. He was looking around the darkened room at the shadows on the walls.

"Familiar?" I asked. He nodded slowly.

"I remember," he said.

"How much?" He shook his head.

"Just—flashes." He limped over to the other side of the bed and sat down with his back to the window. He rubbed the exposed sheet between his fingers. "I slept here," he said. "On this side."

"Yeah."

"I remember your skin." I walked around the bed and stopped just in front of him.

"What about it?" I questioned since that was an unusual thing for him to remember. He moved his hand out and gripped my wrist. He ran his thumb over my skin and focused on that.

"It was warm." He moved his hand to my waist and pulled me in closer. "And damp." He slid his hand up the back of my shirt to the small of my back and my breath caught in my throat. "Right here." My breathing had gone ragged, but I nodded.

"Yeah, I guess so." His eyes moved back to my face, but then he seemed to snap to attention as he let go of whatever memory he was seeing.

"The book," he said. "I left it."

"We can look at it tomorrow. It's late. It's dark."

"The kid. I don't want him to overhear."

"We can stay up here. He won't question it." His eyebrows furrowed.

"He won't?" I shook my head slowly.

"Adults usually don't question why other adults are alone together. He's twenty-three, remember?"

"He'll think…" He stopped when my eyes went wide. The man had his hand on the bare skin on my back and was just telling me how he remembered me being damp and warm, and he was worried about what the kid would think. Then he stood up, but he kept his hand on my back so I didn't move away. He stood over me, our faces just inches apart, and I was finding it very difficult to breathe again. "There's a code," he said in a low voice. "In the book."

"Can I ask you something?" I asked. I was too distracted to think about codes.

"Yes."

"Graham said that—the other night he told you that he thought—that you looked at me like I was the most beautiful and important person in your life. He said you told him something. I want to know what you said." He studied my face for a moment.

"Johanna." It was "Yo-honna." Not Jo. Which somehow felt more personal than even the nickname used only by the people closest to me.

"He also said that we shouldn't…"

"Be dumb, I know. He said that I should be clear. Just in case I didn't get another chance." I nodded.

"Right. And what did he tell you?"

"That I shouldn't keep it to myself. But it's not…"

"It's not what?"

"Either of us could die—tomorrow—without having said a word. But if saying it is what's going to get you killed, should you still do it?"

"What makes you think it would get me killed?"

"You already said you won't let me go. You know I can't stay here. I've done—so many terrible things. I'm not just running from them anymore."

"I know, and I know I can't go with you. But I want you to know that you have a place. A home. That you could always come back to—If that was ever a viable option for you."

"Is that really the kind of life you want to live? What if they never come and you stay here in your little house with your job and your friend? I wouldn't be able to come around. I wouldn't even be able to tell you if I was alive. That's not really—much of a life, is it?" I had a feeling the word he wanted to use wasn't "life" but "relationship."

"I don't want to stay here in my little house with my job and my friend. I care about Graham, but I want him to not depend on me. I care about my job, but I'm just a fill-in for Sam until he comes back or they find someone more permanent. I have nothing here. No goals. No future. Just a sad, empty little house."

"You'd have even less with me."

"I never asked you to take me with you. I just want…" I bit my lip and shook my head.

"What?" he asked.

"To make the best of the time I still have with you before you disappear again." He stepped closer and filled the space between us. I could feel his heat and his heart beating, and I had to take a deep breath.

"And what happens when I'm well enough to leave? Are you going to defend yourself if they come for you? Are you going to wait around forever for me to come back if they don't?"

"I'll fight to the best of my ability, but I won't hide from them. And—I don't know if I can wait either. Steve will never stop fighting for you, and I'll be right beside him."

"You'll get yourself killed."

"What's the alternative? I hide until HYDRA loses interest or kills me or one of my friends or my sister? Let my friends fight my battles for me? Stay here where I have nothing and no future or purpose? I'll fight because it's the right thing to do. Not because I…" He moved his head lower and barely brushed his nose against mine.

"Promise me you won't fight because you…" I nodded.

"I'll fight because you deserve so much more. Not because I don't want to lose you."

"What makes you think I deserve more?"

"Because I know what they did to you. What they made you do."

"And you think I didn't like it? That I didn't have a choice?" I moved my hands up over his shoulders and into his hair. It was so hard being this close to him without touching him.

"If you had a choice they wouldn't have had to make you forget. They wouldn't have set up ways to control you."

"But you think I didn't like it? All the killing, all the power, the death?"

"Bucky."

"Does it make you uncomfortable? Because that's who you said you'd fight for. I liked killing, Johanna. That woman? The scientist? Her name was Beata. I remember her. I remember when she jumped off that bridge. I remember the sound of her body hitting a car below. I remember feeling angry at her because she denied me the satisfaction of killing her."

My breathing had gone ragged again, and I moved my hands back down onto his chest. His hand slipped out of the back of my shirt, and he gripped both of my wrists. But neither of us moved again. I didn't push him away from me, and he didn't try to make me go.

"I killed them," I admitted.

"Who?" he asked.

"My squad. My whole team. I killed all of them." He shook his head, confused. "That's what I've been dreaming about. That's why I keep having nightmares. I see myself kill them."

"They died in battle."

"Maybe. But—it was Russell who shot me. I spent the last six years of my life trying to figure out why he didn't kill me. He could have shot me in the face, but he aimed for my shoulder. Not to kill me. To subdue me. He shot me to stop me from killing them."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I couldn't—control it. It was like there was something in my head telling me what to do."

Something seemed to click, and he moved away from me. He sat down on my bed, and I stood there as I tried to work passed the shock of admission. The dreams started after HYDRA fell. I played with the idea of them being false. My mind was just trying to work through survivor's guilt. The trauma of the event with HYDRA had triggered something. But the dreams got more vivid. More real. I wasn't experiencing the guilt of a survivor. It was the guilt of a murderer.

I just wasn't sure why I remembered it wrong for so long. Had I done it subconsciously? Did I lie to myself about what really happened to stop myself from feeling all this guilt? Is that why I couldn't stop dreaming about it now? Because I knew it wasn't real? Or did they make me see it differently all those years my therapist fed lies into my head?

I moved forward and took the seat beside him. I pulled his hand onto my lap and gripped his metal fingers between mine. I wasn't sure if he could even feel me, but I wanted him to know I was there for him either way. If he still thought of himself as a monster, then he had to know I was one too.

He turned to look me over. He had that confusion on his face again. It was obvious he was looking at me differently now. Something made sense to him. He'd noticed it before but could never quite put his finger on it. Now he knew.

"You think you're the only person who's done terrible things?" I asked him. I looked down at out entwined fingers and the strange contrast of metal weaving through flesh and bone. "Maybe that's what you actually saw in me when we met. You said you saw something familiar. You knew I was a soldier before I told you. There was a darkness in me, you said. But I don't think you saw me as a soldier. I think you knew I was a killer."

"It doesn't change anything. Even if it's true."

"I think it does, Bucky. It means I understand. Not entirely obviously. I don't remember wanting to hurt anyone, but I remember believing that I had to. I don't know how it happened or why. I just know that—all that matters now is what we do here. I'm not saying their lives didn't matter. Just that we can't change what we did to them. But we can change the present. And maybe the future too."

"What do you want me to do, Jo?" he asked. It was the first time I'd called him that since he came back. I liked it when he called me Yo-honna because it was intimately close. But when he called me Jo, it felt familiar and safe. I wondered if that's how he felt when I called him Bucky versus James. One was intimate, and one was familiar.

"I want you to choose for yourself," I told him honestly.

"And if I decided to go back to that life?" he questioned.

"As long as you understood the consequences of your choice. And that you'd likely get killed or imprisoned. I think you've earned the right to choose who you want to be."

"And if I went into the other room right now and murdered your friend?"

"I obviously don't want you to do that. And I think if you did make that choice, you would have to know that I'd never forgive you."

He sighed heavily and dropped back onto the mattress. I released his hand but leaned on my arm so I could look down at him. He shut his eyes and rubbed his face.

"I said, 'She is," he said.

"What?" I asked.

"When he said that I looked at you like you are the most beautiful and important person in my life, I said, 'She is." He looked back at me again, and I probably looked completely dumbfounded by his answer. Whatever I had expected, it wasn't that.

"Why?" I questioned, shaking my head. "What about Steve?" He sat up again and leaned against his metal arm. The position probably pulled on his stitches and hurt, but he didn't move. He put himself at my eye level.

"Steve is—important," he said. "I can feel it. He's important to whichever part of me is still James Barnes. But I'm not just James Barnes anymore. I'm not—the Soldier either. I'm someone new. Whoever this person is—that's who you know. That's who you cared for. Steve cares about Barnes. I care about him because Barnes cared about him. But you never knew him. You care about me—because of me. You're important because I care. Not James Barnes or the Solider. Me. And Steve—doesn't need me to look out for him anymore."

"And you think I do?"

"I know that you do."

I watched his face while he spoke. It was weird hearing him call Steve by his name again. And he was right. He wasn't James Barnes or the Winter Soldier, but someone new. And that's the man who reached out to me, and the one I had come to care so deeply for. I understood why that would stand out to him. The same way I wanted to be loved for who I was now and not who I was in the past.

It still didn't answer my question about whether or not he just liked me because I was the first person to show him kindness. I guess that didn't matter either. It was still me. He came to me. I was never the sort of person who believed in destiny or anything like that. It could have been anyone and maybe he would have liked them too. Maybe they would have cared about him as much as I did. But those were all what-ifs that didn't matter. It was me and not anyone else, and neither of us could change that or really know what would have happened with someone else. So I took a deep breath and put my hand on his chest again.

"James?" I started.

"Yes?" he answered.

"What do you want? I'm not asking what you think is logical or what you think you or I need. What do you want? Selfishly. Just for you." He shook his head and made that partial smile. Then he looked down at the sheets.

"I want you to be safe. To not need me to keep you that way. For them to forget who you are and what they ever wanted from you." I almost laughed.

"I don't think that counts as selfish." He shook his head.

"Fine. I want to regain—something. I want you safe but close by. So that I can be near you without putting your life in danger. Without being afraid of hurting you." I nodded slowly again.

"I guess—that kind of counts."

"And I want to be honest with you and admit that I hate sleeping on your couch." Then I actually did laugh.

"I wasn't going to ask you to go back downstairs. And I wouldn't have made you sleep on it at all if you weren't in pain every time you tried to move. And I'm sorry that I keep hogging all your space." He smiled and shook his head. But it was a full smile this time that was soft and real and reached his eyes.

"I'm sorry I threw you into the coffee table." I put my hand on his cheek and tried not to kiss him on the lips.

"Don't be. Let's just get some sleep. There's plenty of room for the both of us."

I moved to the other side of the bed so he could lie down. He got comfortable under the blankets and then stretched his arm across the bed so I could rest on him even though we had more than enough pillows. I rest my head on his arm and put my hand on his chest. The arm came down over my back, and I decided I could live with all the things Graham would say if I asked him to help me get Bucky up the stairs. I wasn't going to let him sleep on the couch again.

* * *

Mmhmm mmhmm mmhmm

I forgot what I was going to say. I feel like it was important.


	24. Chapter 24

I woke in the morning to the sound of scratching and thumping from the attic. I must have jumped because I felt a heavy metal arm wrap around my body. I could feel his other arm just under the pillows beneath my head. I rolled onto my back and looked up at the sunlight that was filtering through the blinds. The thumping continued.

"Raccoon," Bucky mumbled from beside me.

He moved his arm and pulled me closer. I felt his hair against my face and his nose on my cheek. So I rolled to my side and slid my hand over his shoulder and onto his face. I wanted to kiss him, and with the way his hands were gripping me, I guessed that he wanted to kiss me too. Our bodies were touching. His hand moved, gentle but daring, up the back of my shirt. I pressed my lips against his chest as my leg slid between his, then I dragged them up to the hollow of his throat. His fingers gripped me tight, and I was about to finally make the move and kiss him when the door across the hall opened.

We both froze exactly as we were. I didn't even realize how heavy we were breathing until we were still. I could feel his heart beating quickly in his chest. The floor creaked, and then Graham knocked on the door. Bucky let go of a held breath in exasperation.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"Can you give me a ride?" Graham replied.

"What?"

"Can you give me a ride? I need to turn in these job applications." I glanced at Bucky, and his jaw had gone tight. His eyes were dangerously dark, but he looked more irritated than murderous. I moved to climb out of the bed, and his arm shot out to wrap around my wrist.

"Don't go," he whispered.

I sat there for a moment as I tried to figure out what to do. He was sprawled out and warm in my bed. With messy hair and eyes that were vibrantly blue in the early morning sun. Then I looked back at the door and thought about riding around all over the city with Graham as he made comments about the fact that Bucky slept in my bed.

"Just give me a second," I told him. Then I stood up and walked to the door.

I had to readjust my shirt since Bucky had his hand up the back and had taken most of the shirt with it. I'd thought we were being relatively innocent, but the state of my clothes told a different story. I cracked the door open and glared at Graham standing in my hallway fully dressed and ready to go.

"Can you give me a ride?" he repeated.

"Just take the car. You have a license, right?"

"Of course I do, I'm twenty-thr…"

"Twenty-three, I know."

"The car won't work. It's got the fingerprint do-hicky, doesn't it? I don't want Stark to murder me."

"I'll call him to give you access. It's my day off. I'm sleeping in."

Then it seemed to register with him. He looked down the hall at the stairs as if he was putting the pieces together. I spent two nights on the couch with Bucky. I left the door open so he would know when I wasn't in my room. But now I was. And I wasn't in any hurry to leave it. His mouth opened slowly, and he turned back to me with wide gray eyes.

"Don't even start," I warned. His mouth snapped shut.

"Right. I'll just—take as long as I possibly can."

"I'll call Stark," I reminded him. Then I shut the door on him. I heard him head down the hall to the stairs and returned to my bed. But instead of sliding back into place at Bucky's side like I really wanted to, I reluctantly pulled my phone off of its charger and called the very last person I wanted to talk to at that moment.

"Talk to me," Stark answered.

"I'm letting the kid take my car," I told him.

"And good morning to you, Johanna." He said "Jo-hanna." Not Yo-honna. But it somehow felt better that he did.

"Let the kid take the car, please?"

"What does he need the car for?"

"None of your business, Tony."

"It's my car. I think it's my business." I groaned.

"He's putting in job applications, alright?"

"And what are you doing?"

"Sleeping in." I felt Bucky shift and then his hand was on my back. I had to take a deep breath. I really wished Tony would hurry the hell up. "Will you let the kid take the car, or not?"

"I guess so. But only this once."

"Kay, great. And can you do me a favor?"

"What do you need?"

"Can you stop monitoring my house?"

"Can't do that. Saved your ass last time. I'm sure as hell not going to stop now that HYDRA wants you." I sighed heavily. "Look," he said after a moment. "Is this about the uh—other person who's been staying with you?"

"Maybe."

"Not a homeless kid."

"No."

"A guy."

"Yes."

"A boyfriend kind of guy?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"What's his name?"

"I'm not telling you."

"Then I'm not going to stop monitoring you."

"Fine then, don't. But be prepared for the alerts."

"JARVIS has gotten much better at telling the difference between 'she's scared or in pain' versus 'she's very much the opposite.' Since the LAST time anyway."

"Good. Kay, bye." I shut the phone off and tossed it back onto the nightstand. Then I turned around and slid back into place. His arms pulled me in and wrapped around my body. I leaned on my elbow and ran my hand up his chest, carefully avoiding the stitches.

"He's in the kitchen," he told me as my lips went to his neck. He pulled me in closer until I slid my leg back between his and our bodies were touching.

"Give him a minute," I whispered against his skin.

He groaned from deep within in his throat. Irritated and impatient. But then he moved me onto my back and came to rest between my legs. My hands tangled in his hair, and he touched his lips to my jaw. His skin was warm and rough, and I wanted the kid to hurry the hell up and leave. Bucky's hand slipped under my back and pulled my body against his. I could feel the sutures catch on my shirt.

"Does it hurt?" I asked as he moved his lips to my collarbone.

"No."

"Are you sure? And the sutures? What if they rip again?"

"Then you can put them back together." His lips moved lower, and his hand slid out from underneath me. He tugged at the hem of my shirt.

"Don't you think that would kill the mood? Just a little?" I whispered. His hand moved up, and he pushed the shirt up with it.

"No," he said flatly.

"Bucky—you do realize you haven't even kissed me yet, right?"

"I'm going to."

"We just woke up. Don't you think we should at least—brush our teeth or something?" He paused in his efforts to get my shirt up and glanced at me.

"Is that really what you want to do right now?"

"Well—no."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then don't worry about it."

The shirt went up higher, his lips moved lower, right to the center of my chest. I had my hands on his shoulders, and I was breathing raggedly. I heard the front door close right as his lips met the skin on my stomach. And once he was sure Graham was gone, he pulled me up and yanked the shirt right up over my head. His lips crashed against mine, and he knocked me back down onto the pillows. Then his lips were on the crook of my neck. His hand slid down my body and gripped the edge of my pants. He sat up and pulled them down, lifting my hips off of the bed to yank them off.

But he was still wearing the sweatpants I'd given him. So I sat up and moved onto my knees. I slipped my hands into the sides of his pants as I kissed him on the jaw. I pushed forward, moving him down onto his back as I pulled them free. But he was faster than me, and apparently more impatient. He had them off in an instant, and I kissed his chest as I came to rest on top of him.

"I remember," he said as I moved my hands over his chest before leaning on them to hover over him. He tucked my hair back behind my ear and gently brushed my cheek with his fingers. "I remember you like this," he told me. Then I leaned down to kiss him on the lips, but before I could go any farther, he gripped my hips and had me flat on my back in half a second. He kissed my chest again as one hand pressed my thigh flat against the mattress. "I wasn't done."

"I was trying to avoid ripping out your stitches," I replied. But I wasn't going to complain. His lips were moving over my stomach now and my breath caught in my throat.

"I'm not worried about it," he told me.

His breath was hot against my bare skin and every once in a while he would gently bite me. Not hard enough to hurt me, but hard enough so that my fingers gripped into his hair and I was breathing loudly and fast. His lips found my inner thigh, and then I was totally and completely done for. His lips moved over my skin, and I gripped the sheet between my fingers. I didn't care about his stitches anymore. Mostly because I couldn't think straight and I just didn't want him to stop.

He didn't until the both of us were too frustrated to keep going. He moved to my level and gently parted my legs with his warm, callused hands, and then he winced.

"Buck?" I whispered. He was hovering over me but had gone completely still. His eyes were pinched shut, and he didn't look comfortable.

"I'm fine," he said, but he still didn't move.

"Just roll over. Please?"

He finally, and reluctantly, did as I asked and moved onto the bed beside me. I climbed onto him but paused with both of my hands at either side of his head. I'd been so caught up in the moment and all that frustration that I didn't even take the time to notice what he looked like so early in the morning. He looked so alive and free. He was unshaven, but his hair was clean. He was messy but healthy, and his eyes were no longer dark and tired. His brown hair had fallen out of his face and onto my floral patterned pillow case. Sunlight was spilling in through the window and hit his eyes at just the right angle. Making them pop with color and life. Even with stitches and covered in bruises and scars and an arm made of metal, he was beautiful.

I didn't want to forget him like that, and I hoped he was truly as alive and content as he looked. I lowered my head and pressed my forehead against his. I tangled a hand in his hair and slid the other one down his chest and between us. His breathing became shallow, and I lifted my head, just lightly, so that I could see his face. He studied me with eyes that were vibrantly blue. No longer cold and threatening, but warm and inviting.

"Brown," he said.

"What?" I asked, shaking my head.

"You were right. Your eyes look brown in the sunlight."

Then I couldn't stop myself from kissing him. His metal hand came to rest on my hip, and he pulled me down onto him. The other moved into my hair as he pulled my mouth against his. I finally understood what the kid meant by the way he looked at me. I couldn't recall a single time that anyone had looked at me that way. Or made me feel the way he did with just a look.

I couldn't say for sure if it was love, romantic or otherwise. But I really hoped that it was. Even if it was just the start of it. Because I didn't want to love anyone else. And I didn't know if I'd be capable of it again either.

* * *

Sexy sexy stuff. These chapters always make me feel weird. (Brain: You can't be a prude. You have a child.)

I remembered what I wanted to say in yesterday's author's note. My intention is not to put Jo above Steve in terms of how Bucky feels. (Because I am very much a huge sap for these old geezers and their tragic relationship.) Just that I think Bucky is probably still very confused about what he wants and he never planned to go to Jo. He was just injured and she was the closest person he felt like he could trust. I tried to have him explain in the last chapter that he recognizes that Steve cares about who he was, and he cares about Steve because "Bucky" did. But Jo cares about him for who he is now and that's a pretty significant distinction for someone who's gone through something completely life altering. But it doesn't mean that Jo is more important to him than Steve. Just that they are distinctly different relationships. Plus, the fact that Steve really doesn't need Bucky to look out for him and Jo is kind of a mess and could use more help than she'd like to admit.


	25. Chapter 25

Later, I was lying on Bucky's chest in my bed. We hadn't spoken for a while. I laid down on his chest and listened to the sound of his heart beating until it returned to a normal pace. Then we stayed there, only occasionally moving to run our fingers over each other's skin. I wasn't sure how long it would be before Graham came back, but I wanted to take advantage of every second we had completely alone.

"Buck?" I asked after a long time.

"Mm?" he replied, running his fingers down my spine.

"How did you know there was something more going on?" I lifted my head so that I could look at him. His brown hair was even messier than before, mostly my fault, but his blue eyes were bright and lazy. He moved his hand to my face, gently dragging his knuckles across my cheek and into my equally messy hair.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Everyone seems to think that they want me to use against you. But not you."

"If I'd stayed with them I never would have known about you. But they had no use for me anymore. Except to bring you in. To hurt you."

"What do you mean?"

"They were going to execute me. They kept me alive for you. When they sent me after you, they didn't tell me what they wanted you for. Just that you were important. They called you a vessel. I knew it was likely going to be my last mission. They told me not to let you speak, and if you did, not to listen. They said you'd try to manipulate me. You had powerful friends. I didn't question it."

"But something clicked."

"I—attacked you—because I wanted to keep you from speaking. Stark blocked you, and something happened. Familiarity. I don't know. It didn't feel right. You used my name like you knew who I was." He shook his head. "I think I always started to remember. I was becoming more and more reckless and harder to contain. I was no longer useful to them. Unless I could bring you in. And when you recognized me, I realized they were just using you to hurt me. Which meant you must have been important to me."

"And you left?"

"I never went back."

"You started asking questions." He nodded.

"I started by trying to figure out how you knew me. Things became clearer the longer I spent away from them. I didn't know anything for certain until I came back here. Everything feels familiar here. And then I saw you. It was obvious I was important to you too." I rested my head on his chest again and traced my fingers over his skin as he spoke. His arm wrapped around me, and I felt safe and content. "There are so many holes in your past. So many missing pieces. So many memories. I don't know which ones are real."

"And what makes you think they still want me? Even if they can't use us against each other."

"The woman. The scientist who jumped off a bridge. She was using an alias. But I have reason to believe her real name was Beata Weisberg. There are too many similarities between the two of you. Too many connections. They were after her because she took something from them. They needed her alive. She had no connection to me. It was beyond me. I can't get enough information about her to figure it out. Her past is—as difficult to access as yours. Only worse, because she doesn't have military records."

"What's your theory?"

"I think you were connected to her. She left something behind. Something only you can access. If Russell was her husband, then it's likely he was the one tampering with your records to throw them off your trail. He recruited you. And if what you're saying is true, that you killed them, and he shot you? Then he might know exactly what they want you for. He's been keeping them away. I turned the spotlight on you. I made them figure it out."

"They had me once, though," I reminded him. "I worked for SHIELD."

"I don't think they were looking for you yet. They didn't know you were the one they wanted. Not until I brought their attention to you."

"What kind of similarities do I share with her?" I asked. He moved his hand back down my spine, moving his fingers up and down several times before answering.

"It took me a long time to find her real name. I think you know why it's significant," he said.

"Say it."

"Weisberg is your mother's maiden name."

"And what else?"

"She died the day before you were born. In Ohio."

I pulled away from him and sat on the edge of the bed. I could feel the mattress shift behind me. He moved to my side and rested his head on the pillow next to me. He touched my back with the back of his hand and pressed his lips against my bare thigh. Not quite kissing me, but comfortable and intimate enough so that he might as well have been.

"I know what you're thinking," I said.

"It's not for me to speculate," he decided.

I took a deep breath and let it go. Then I stood up and turned around to face him. I still wasn't wearing any clothes, but I really didn't care. For probably the first time in my life, I didn't mind that I was completely naked in front of someone else. I'd been with people a lot longer than I'd even known him, and I'd never been this comfortable. But I don't think I'd ever opened myself up to anyone the way I had with him. Emotionally. And to be fair, he was naked too. Only he was lying under my tangled and twisted sheets.

"I'm hungry. Are you hungry?" I asked him. He leaned against his hand and looked slightly irritated again.

"Not really," he replied. The flat tone reappeared. I turned around to find my clothes.

"I need—coffee."

"Johanna."

"Maybe some waffles."

"Jo."

"I think there's still a can of whipped cream in the fridge. I'll have to check." I yanked my sweatpants back on and reached for my shirt. I was halfway to the door when he spoke again.

"You can't avoid it forever, you know?"

"We'll see," I decided. Then I stepped out into the hall as I pulled the shirt down over my head.


	26. Chapter 26

I forgot that Bucky had trouble with the stairs until I was in the kitchen getting the waffles ready. He didn't seem to have any problem with pain after I made him lie on his back, so it didn't dawn on me until I got the waffle maker going and he still hadn't come down the stairs.

"Aw, crap," I said once I figured it out. Then I hurried out of the kitchen and found him halfway down the stairs, clutching the banister with his metal hand. His right hand was pressed tightly to his side. "They didn't rip, did they?" I asked as I rushed up and pulled his hand away.

"Just pulled," he said between clenched teeth.

"I'm so sorry. I forgot. Come sit down." I wrapped my arm around him and helped him hobble back down the stairs to the couch. He sat down with a sigh, and I moved onto my knees to examine the stitches more carefully in the sunlight.

I was still sitting between his knees, prodding at the sutures when the front door opened. I noticed Bucky's hand slide into the couch cushions for the gun, but it was only Graham.

"Jesus," he said when he stepped inside. "Sock on the doorknob."

"Oh, shut up. I was checking his stitches," I snapped. He still had his head turned away dramatically, and Bucky still had his hand between the couch cushions. Graham waved some papers in our direction.

"Right, well. Gonna go fill these out." He hurried off down the hall to the kitchen, and I looked up at Bucky. He watched Graham go and then moved his hand back into his lap. His eyes moved to meet mine.

"I told you he would think that," he said. I smiled.

"Well, he wasn't wrong," I reminded him. He gave me the half smile and reached out to smooth my hair out of my face. I had to bite my lip to stop myself from smiling like an idiot. I could see what Graham meant by "starry eyed" and I was pretty sure I had the same look on my face.

"Um—are you cooking waffles?" Graham asked from the kitchen.

"Shit," I said as I bolted away from the couch. I rushed into the kitchen to try and save the waffle.

"You should really get a timer for that thing," Graham remarked. He was sitting at the table filling out more applications.

"Good idea. You can buy me one when you get hired." He groaned.

"If that ever happens."

"What makes you think it won't?"

"Because I chucked a burrito at someone, remember?"

"Right. You might want to cut back on that."

"Well, Arby's seems promising. The guy seemed really enthusiastic when we talked. I gave him your number. I hope that's okay."

"Yeah, of course." I went to get a plate from the cupboard when he yelped from behind me again.

"Christ Almighty," he whispered. "You really gotta stop doing that." I turned around, and Bucky was standing in the kitchen.

"I just wanted something to drink," he said.

"Oh jeez. Sorry. I'll get you some water," I told him.

"It's alright. I can do it." I knew he hated being helpless so I stepped back as he moved for the cupboard. I glanced at Graham who was staring down at his applications. His neck and cheeks were bright red. So I looked back at Bucky and finally noticed the red marks on his arm—and his chest—and his neck.

"Ah, no. It's alright. I got it," I said, putting my hands on his shoulders and spinning him back around. "You need to rest."

"I can get my own water," he insisted.

"No, I got it." He grumbled in Russian and then disappeared into the hallway. I turned back around to find Graham quietly snickering into his hand. "Oh shut up," I said as I returned to the counter to get Bucky's water.

"I didn't say anything. But you should maybe consider giving him a shirt."

"Oh, bite me."

"I'm guessing Bucky already did that. Or was it just you?" I swung around and chucked a potholder at him. It didn't faze him. He laughed until he was almost falling out of the chair and I wanted to strangle him.

We had the whole day to do whatever we wanted. Only there wasn't anything for us to do. Graham was perfectly happy filling out applications and reading all day. But Bucky was eager to talk about whatever it was he found in the book. So after we ate breakfast in the living room, he helped me carry the plates back to the kitchen to wash them.

"There's a code in the book," he whispered once the water was running loudly enough to drown out our voices.

"What kind of code?" He shook his head.

"Certain letters are bolded. It's almost unnoticeable. Some of them spell out words and numbers."

"Like what exactly?"

"The first set is undoubtedly Beata Weisberg. IGH might be the next. It's hard to tell. The numbers could be coordinates."

"To where?"

"I don't know."

"We can check my computer." He glanced behind me at the hallway.

"I don't want him to know what we're doing."

"He saw you writing stuff down in your notebook. I'm pretty sure he knows you're up to something."

"I haven't just been working on the codes. I'm always writing in my notebook, but I don't want him to know the coordinates. If that's what they are."

"You didn't write them down?" He shook his head. "Where are they?"

"In my head."

"You can memorize large groups of numbers?"

"Coordinates are easy." I shook my head.

"It took me half a year to memorize my own phone number. And it's the only number I even know by heart."

"I'm sure that's not true."

"What makes you say that?"

"Your commanding officer would have had you memorize numbers and codes. Coordinates, serial numbers, and Morse at the very least. If Russell didn't develop his own sequences."

"I honestly can't remember learning anything like that." He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated.

"If you really did—what you think you did—why didn't Russell have you arrested?"

"I don't know. That's the only part I don't understand. There would have to be a record of it somewhere, wouldn't there? But you did say he was trying to protect me."

"And you said it felt like you had no control. He would want to know why."

"I didn't have anything to do with HYDRA before working for SHIELD. How could they have gotten control over me? There are others." He shook his head.

"What did it feel like?"

"I kept telling my body to stop and it wouldn't. I felt like there was something in my head. Burrowing." His jaw went tight, and he turned toward the sink again. The dish he was washing was probably very clean, but he kept scrubbing anyway. I was afraid it might break in his hand. "Does that sound familiar to you?" I asked. He shook his head once.

"They were always trying things—experimenting on people. I wasn't allowed access. I had my job, and they had theirs. I was asleep when I wasn't useful. But I still could have seen or heard something. I don't know. It just feels—like I've heard it before." I nodded and took the plate out of his hand before he broke it. "Where was the mission?" I ran the dish under the water, but I couldn't come up with an answer.

"I don't know," I said. I looked up at him again. "I can't remember."

"Who were you fighting? Do you remember anything?" I put the plate down on the counter and leaned against it.

"I remember being briefed. They said it would be short. There was a threat against a school. We were just supposed to guard the kids. Small school. Only one or two classes. They never said who made the threat or why, that I can remember. Just that we had to be there in case it was real or something went wrong." I shook my head. "I don't remember even seeing the school. I know there were kids. I saw them die. I heard gunfire. The team separated. Russell told me to stay with him. I said that something felt off. I was shaking. He thought I was just scared. And then—I pulled my gun on him. One of my teammates came looking for him, and I shot him in the face."

"And Russell didn't subdue you?"

"I ran away. There was an explosion somewhere. It must have knocked enough sense in me so that I could get away. I shot another teammate. Almost shot another but—I managed to fight it. For a while. There was a grenade. Russell shot me. Talbot went down, and I went to help him. That's when it came back. It was telling me to kill him. I didn't. I shot Lieutenant Jimenez instead. That's it. That's all I can…" He waited for me to finish. My fingers were dripping water onto the counter, and I was gripping it tight as I stared at the stream of it running out of the faucet. He put his hand on my back.

"What else?" he prodded. I shook my head again.

"I remember seeing lights above me. I remember feeling like I was drowning. Trees and cold. That's it. I don't know what any of that means. The next thing I can remember clearly is waking up from surgery. Russell was there."

"What did it look like? The city."

"I don't know. Older architecture. There was an old church. It was falling apart. Some streets were paved. Some were stone. Eastern Europe maybe."

"Sokovia," he said. I looked up at him, but he was staring out the back window and into the yard.

"What?"

"That was one of the words in the book. Sokovia. That must have been where you were. You don't remember. You didn't remember what happened until recently. If you can't remember—it means they were hiding something. If Russell put that in your book, he must have expected you to read it and put the pieces together. He wanted you to remember. So he isn't the one who made you forget."

"I stopped reading after I got home. I used to read all the time. He must have thought I still read."

"Why did you stop?"

"It makes me disassociate." He nodded slowly. "I don't know what any of this means, Bucky." I dried the plate and quickly stuck it back in the cupboard. Bucky went silent as he waited for me to finish. But once I was done, I put a smile back on my face. "Let's go find a movie to watch."

"Don't do this again," he said.

"I'm not. I just need to think, okay?"

I turned toward the living room, and he followed after me. I sat down on the couch, but he picked up the book before taking his seat. He opened it on the coffee table and turned to the back page. Then he pulled a knife out from under the pillows and stabbed it into the cover so hard it stuck straight through into the coffee table.

"Jesus," Graham said from the armchair as the sound broke him out of his reading trance.

"What are you doing?" I asked Bucky. He shot me an irritated glance and ripped the knife down the length of the cover, revealing a hollowed out center.

"You can't ignore it forever," he said. Then he pulled a key out of the space and held it up to me. I had absolutely no idea why there was a key in my book or what it belonged to, but I took it anyway. It was small enough so that I never noticed it hidden in the back cover. But Bucky did.

"What's this for?" I questioned. He tapped the side of his head to remind me of the numbers he was too afraid to write down.

* * *

I'm almost completely done with editing now. And when I'm done with editing, and updating, and I'm really completely totally done, I'm just not going to know what to do with myself. Until Civil War comes out. Then it will probably start all over again.

Random things.

1\. I totally have a Captain America waffle maker and it is possibly one of the greatest things I own. I can't finish a full shield to myself because I'm a wuss when it comes to portion sizes (I eat like a rabbit, I can't help it). But I like to eat everything around the star, leaving just the star intact, and then I give it to my son. He likes to eat my stars for some reason.

2\. Jessica Jones reference. Mmmm... hmmmm... (I feel like I should clarify. Jo has not been Killgraved. That's not the JJ reference.)


	27. Chapter 27

I wasn't eager to figure out what the hell was going on in my book, but Bucky was. He insisted that we needed to talk about it, privately. And he wasn't going to stop pestering me until we did. And he actually used those words. So I helped him up the stairs, and we returned to my bedroom. He sat down on the bed, breathing heavily from his trip up the stairs and I sat down beside him. He immediately got to work. He opened the book, turned to a page, and showed me where the letters were bolded.

"It starts on page thirteen," he told me. "Which happens to be the day of your birth, according to your birth certificate. I don't know if that's a coincidence. The first few pages spell out 'Beata.' Then 'Weisberg.' Then a few pages later there are three bolded letters. I, G, and H. Several pages after that I managed to pick out the word Sokovia."

"And the numbers?" I asked. He showed me where various numbers had been added to the ends of random paragraphs. They were in a nearly identical font, and would have gone completely unnoticed if he hadn't pointed them out. I stood up. "Let me get my laptop."

I kept my computer in the spare bedroom. I meant to take it out before letting Graham take the room, but I'd been a bit distracted by Bucky turning up covered in blood. So I crossed the hall to get it and returned to Bucky's side a minute later. He called out the numbers for me, and I typed them up. Then we both sat there staring at the screen as the coordinates came up.

"Where is that?" I asked.

"Ohio," he replied. I nodded slowly. "Middle of nowhere."

"Only about an hour and a half away from the town I grew up in, which is coincidentally in the middle of nowhere." He glanced at me before going back to the book.

"There's more in here, but it's not as easy to understand. He was good. All I've been able to get after that is a bunch of random letters and numbers. I don't know what they mean." He showed me his notebook, where he had written down all that he picked out of the book so far. "It's not uncommon for teams like yours to have their own codes and languages so they can communicate nonverbally or without being intercepted. The Commandos had a similar system, but this is unfamiliar to me."

"You remember the Commandos?"

"I remember enough." He flipped the page and handed the notebook out. "See if you can come up with anything." I took it from him and looked over the code he'd written down. The sequence seemed far too random for me to come up with anything. It didn't look familiar. I shook my head.

"I don't think Russell ever showed us a code like this. If he did, I can't remember it. But I can't remember half my training either. I used to think I had Post-Traumatic Stress, but now I'm not so sure."

"Russell wouldn't have given you this code unless he thought you could understand it. Can you think of anything at all?"

"No, I don't…" I paused and sat up straight. "My parents had a code," I told him. I moved the laptop aside so I could face him. "When I was a kid, my mom had a code. I never learned it. But she used to write letters to my dad in this code because he was always into puzzles and things. I remember her writing them during the day when we'd do our homework. I remember thinking it was weird that she seemed to have this code memorized, but he didn't. Like it was constantly changing." He studied my face for a moment.

"Or it was following an intricate pattern," he said. "Did you ever see your dad decode them?" I shrugged and shook my head.

"If he did, I never paid much attention to it. You don't think we should ask her, do you?"

"No, absolutely not."

"Don't tell me you don't trust my parents either."

"It's not that I don't trust them. It's that I think your parents are keeping information from you."

"Why?"

"Parents are—unpredictable," he explained. "They will lie, cheat, and lash out violently when they think their children are threatened. If your mom has a code this complex, a code that evolves or changes as it's being written, then she learned it from someone else. Your mom has no military background, and no offense, but I have no reason to believe she could come up with something like this on her own. She has no legal or biological contacts, according to her records. Someone either taught her the code or developed it with her."

"That's only if it's the same code. It could be something completely different. I was a kid. She could have been using a Little Orphan Annie decoder ring for all I know." He looked very confused. I shook my head. "It's a movie reference. Forget it."

"We can't ask your parents because they will lie if they think it will protect you."

"Then what do we do?"

"We need to find Russell. In the meantime, I'll keep trying to make sense of this." I lifted the notebook and looked over his handwriting. He'd written the code near the back of the book, which made me wonder what was in the rest of it.

"You looked up their history, didn't you?" I questioned.

"You're connected to a woman who died the day before you were born. I thought it might be important to find out how you got involved."

"What did you find?"

"Your dad's father owned a newspaper in Southern California and was a member of a secret organization that disbanded in the late 1940's. That's why they relocated to Ohio. He could have picked up a code there but…"

"You think it's connected?" He shrugged.

"Could be," he decided. "But I don't think it's your father. I think it's your mother." My mom was the sweetest little old lady on the planet. I couldn't imagine how she would have made unusual connections.

"Why?" I questioned.

"Because she had a younger brother who disappeared in nineteen-eighty-four."

"The year that Russell's alias appeared."

"Yes."

"So you think—my former commanding officer was actually—my uncle?" He didn't say anything. He was staring at the wall. His eyes had gone dark again, and his jaw was tight. I got the feeling that it wasn't what he was implying at all. "You don't think he's my uncle," I stated. He shook his head slowly.

"Biologically? No."

"Then say what you're thinking." He turned back to me.

"I don't want to say it because I know you're going to try and avoid it again."

"Just say it." He took a deep breath.

"I think he's your father."

I was silent for about half a second before I shut the laptop and went to return it to Graham's room. I didn't really want to take it there just in case I needed it again, but I needed to get away.

"Goddamn it," Bucky said from behind me.

I understood why he was frustrated with me. I'd be frustrated too. But I didn't know what else to do. He was saying something that could potentially change my whole life. Something I'd never want to think about.

I set the laptop down on the desk that was now piled with all the books Graham wanted to read. I tapped my fingers on the lid a few times before turning around. Bucky was right where I thought he'd be. Standing in the doorway, bare-chested. I should really get him a shirt.

"She died the day before you were born," he reminded me.

"Yeah, so?"

"So there's no record of your mother giving birth. Not to you. Just a birth certificate. There's no record of doctor's visits or nurse's logs or time in the hospital. There was plenty of paperwork on your sister. She had a high-risk pregnancy. She saw a doctor at least once a month. Sometimes more. She spent four days in the hospital to recover. You? You just appeared."

"That doesn't mean anything. Especially if someone has been tampering with my records. They could have hidden that information." I went to pass him, but he was blocking the doorway. I forced myself to look at him, but I couldn't make my expression any warmer. I was biting the inside of my lip and trying not to scowl. I know he was trying to help, but it felt like a personal attack.

"Why would they hide information like that if it didn't mean something?" he asked me.

"You think this Beata woman was my mother?" I questioned. He nodded slowly. "You said she died the day before I was born."

"No," he said. "She died the day before your birth certificate was fabricated."

My chest felt heavy, and I was finding it difficult to breathe. I wanted to run away. I wanted to leave my house and never come back. I didn't want to talk about this anymore. This is why I wanted to avoid it in the first place. I was perfectly happy with the parents that I had. I didn't want to lose them.

"They would have told me," I tried.

"Not if they thought it would put you in danger."

"I just need to be alone." He moved out of my way, and I returned to my bedroom. But I didn't invite him back in. I shut the door so he couldn't follow after me. I was sure Graham could help him back down the stairs.

* * *

So this little "suspicion" was not supposed to be made until much much later. But shit happens, I guess.

Also, in season 2 of Agent Carter there was a character who owned a newspaper in the little secret gentleman's club society thing. And I'm like 80% sure the guy's last name was Hayes. Unfortunately, they didn't show much of him or what happened to the club after the finale. So I didn't have much to work with, but you know with Marvel fucking everything is connected. So I decided to add that little tidbit in there. Jo's paternal gramps was probs a major asshole and did a lot of illegal stuff prior to transferring to Ohio.

But was he REALLY Jo's grandpa? We just don't know. Well, I do. But not you. Or do you? I just don't know.


	28. Chapter 28

I sat down on my bed and stared out the window. This is why I avoided things. This is why I didn't like digging. Every time I paid too much attention to something in my past, something would surface that had the potential to change my whole life. I was already struggling to deal with the fact that I might have murdered my entire squad. Now I had to deal with Bucky suspecting my parents were not actually my parents. I didn't want to believe that, and I couldn't ask them. He was right about that at least. I knew they would lie if they thought it would keep me safe. I didn't believe they would have kept something from me maliciously.

Clara was young when I was born. Young enough so that she may not have noticed something weird going on or that she had a sister come out of nowhere. But she might have been old enough to pick up clues. Or maybe I was just looking for an excuse to hear her voice. I needed to know that she was real, and our past was real. She was my sister regardless of blood or anything else. I still had my phone stuffed into my back pocket. So I pulled it out and called her.

"Hi, it's me," I told her when she answered. I slouched and sank into my bed. I felt pathetic and miserable. As if I needed my big sister to reassure me that she was really my big sister. But I couldn't bring it up. If they hadn't told me, they sure as hell wouldn't have told her.

"Jo, hi!" she replied with excitement. "What's going on? Why do you sound so down? You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, no, no. I'm fine. I just miss you. Kind of trying to get the hang of living without you guys. I was wondering what you were up to."

"I've just been working like crazy since we got back. So has Tony. We've hardly had enough time to see each other. Just constant work." She sounded so normal. Just a woman with a regular job and average parents. Definitely not the kind of woman you'd expect to have a secretly adopted sister who was harboring a wanted assassin in her house. But then again—she was dating Iron Man.

"Oh, I don't want to bother you if you're busy."

"You're not bothering me at all! I probably can't talk for long, but I need a few minutes to myself. What's up? What's going on? How's the new job?"

"It's been great. There isn't much for me to do actually."

"How's your new therapist?"

"She's nice. You just reminded me that I need to call her. But she's nice."

"How are you guys communicating?"

"Um—We talk. A bit. It's just hard."

"I understand, but you should really give her a chance. She might be able to help you a lot. And Sam knows her. He trusts her. That should be good, right?"

"Yeah, I suppose so."

"So—Tony kind of told me you had a guy over."

"Graham?"

"Don't play dumb with me. He told me you have two people staying with you. And you asked him not to monitor you this morning. I was there when you called by the way. And you made it pretty clear it was a guy." I sighed heavily and flopped back onto my mattress. I hadn't bothered to make the bed, so the blankets and sheets were still twisted.

"It's just—a guy," I admitted. "Just a thing." I wasn't going to tell her it was Bucky, and I really hoped she couldn't see right through my life.

"It's not—him—is it?"

"What? No. Of course not. I came back here to get my life back on track, remember?"

"Yeah but…"

"I promised Sam and Steve I would tell them if I knew anything. I just want to get things back to normal." I put my hand on my head and bit my lip.

"So what's he like? Tell me about him," she said. I almost sighed with relief.

"I really don't want to talk about him. It's not anything—uh—huge. Just a thing—you know—for fun." She was silent for a minute.

"You never struck me as the type to go for 'things," she said.

"Yeah, well. I'm recovering still. I'm not interested—in other things."

"Right. Well still. Tell me about him."

"There's nothing to tell. We don't—talk a whole lot."

"But he's been staying with you." Crap crap crap crap.

"Yeah, well. He's not staying with me. He just hasn't left."

"The last time a guy moved himself into your house, it didn't end well. He got violent." She was avoiding saying his name even though she knew it. She also knew that I'd killed that guy just a few weeks before coming to stay with her in Malibu. I appreciated that she didn't say his name.

"No, no, no. He's not like that at all. I mean, it's still new. But he hasn't moved himself in. I have the weekend off, and I asked him to stay."

"But you don't talk." I was going to have to divert this conversation fast. She wasn't going to let it go.

"No, we just have a lot of sex, Clara," I told her.

"Okay then."

"You asked."

"And I sincerely regret it."

"Well, like I said, nothing to worry about." Then I smacked myself in the face. "So anyway, I was thinking about something weird, and I kind of wanted to ask you about it."

"Okay, yeah. Sure. What is it?" she asked.

"Do you remember Mom's brother at all? Like I know she had a brother growing up, but what the hell happened to him?"

"I think he died."

"When?"

"I don't know. I can't remember."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"I'm sure I did. The only thing I remember about him is that he used to send me dresses for Christmas every year. Then he just stopped. But we must have met at some point, right?"

"Do you think they had a bad relationship? I've never even seen pictures."

"Oh, Grandma has one!"

"Does she?"

"I'm pretty sure. You know how she keeps that old business card holder by her bed?"

"Yeah, I remember it."

"She puts pictures in it. I found them when we moved her into the nursing home. She has pictures of us, Grandpa, Mom, and some other guy. Probably her son."

"What was his name?"

"Ivan, I think?"

"Ivan Weisberg?"

"Yeah, something like that. I'm not really sure. I don't think they got along. Mom never talks about him, and neither does Grandma." I tapped my fingers against my jeans. "Why the sudden interest?"

"Oh, it's nothing. I was just telling uh—Graham—the kid who's staying here—something about how we don't have any cousins. And he thought that was weird. Hey, do you remember when Mom used to write those coded letters to Dad?"

"What? No."

"You don't remember?"

"No, I don't think so."

"She wrote them while we did homework. She always said they were for Dad."

"I guess I never paid much attention. That's kind of cute."

"I guess so."

"Well, hey. I'd love to keep talking, but I really have to get this stuff done by tonight. Will you call me again before the weekend is over? Tony and I are going to try and take a day off at some point. Hopefully."

"Yeah, of course."

"You promise?"

"Yeah, I promise."

"This was nice, Jo. I like when you call me unexpectedly."

"I'll do it again, I promise."

"Alright. I'll talk to you later then."

"Bye."

I shut the phone off and dropped my arms over my face. Then I remembered that throwing my phone would probably break it and screaming at the top of my lungs would probably attract more attention than I wanted.


	29. Chapter 29

I laid on my bed for a long time after I finished talking to Clara. I was trying not to think about Bucky's suspicion. Instead, I was thinking about Russell and what I knew about him. My first memory of him was the day of my hearing. When he'd come to my defense and I didn't know why. Until he cornered me later when I was packing my bags and offered me a place on his team. I didn't know why he wanted me on his team, but he made the offer and left me there to think it over.

I accepted. And not because it would get me out of the shitstorm I was facing, or because I was even interested in continuing my military career. But because I just couldn't fail. I couldn't go home and tell my parents, especially my dad, that I failed. Russell promised to give me a purpose, and that's all I'd ever wanted.

I couldn't remember most of my training with him. I couldn't pinpoint specific memories of that time. I could remember my squad, but I couldn't remember meeting them. My memories were hazy. They were just part of my life suddenly. One moment they weren't there at all, and the next thing I knew they were my family. I just couldn't remember why I felt that way about them.

I tried to remember the last time I'd seen Russell too. I was certain it was when he gave me the book. We went to a funeral. Some mutual connection we'd made while I was on his team. But that wasn't where he gave me the book. We were indoors. I couldn't remember anything other than the feel of the canvas cover as he slid it into my hands and made me promise to read it. I thought it was nothing but a small token. A reminder that we were friends once. Or that we were all that was left of the team that we both loved so much.

I didn't think he'd put anything in the book. Not a code or a key or anything else. I read a lot when we worked together. He must have assumed I still did. Which meant he must have already known my memories were messed up and something was missing. I wondered if he suspected SHIELD was behind it. We needed to find him. Bucky was right about that too.

I didn't want to talk about his suspicions, but I didn't want to be alone anymore either. I wanted to lie on my bed and feel Bucky beside me and not say a single thing. Just like we did in the morning when we laid there for so long before getting out of bed. Nothing felt "time sensitive." Or at least, nothing seemed more important at that moment.

I climbed off of the bed and headed toward the door. I popped it open and found him in the hallway sitting on the floor. He had his back to the wall beside Graham's door. His knee was raised, and he looked comfortable. He never even tried to go back down the stairs. Graham had been down there alone the entire time.

He lifted his head when I opened the door. He must have overheard me talking to Clara. I hoped he didn't take what I said seriously, but I figured he would understand that I couldn't tell her how I really felt. And if he heard me talking then he must have heard the hitch in my voice or the few times I'd sniffed and forced myself not to cry after we hung up. I didn't want him to hear me cry.

He didn't speak, and I didn't speak. I stepped forward, moved his knee aside, and sat down between his legs. I rested my body against the stitch-free side of his chest. His arm came around my shoulder, and he held me just like I wanted.

"I didn't mean what I said," I told him. "To my sister. I just didn't want her to get suspicious."

"I know," he replied.

"She's pregnant. That's why I had to leave Malibu."

"What?"

"Clara. I don't know why she hasn't told me yet. Maybe she's not going to keep it. I don't know. But I figured it out."

"How?"

"I was medically trained for most of my adult life, Bucky."

"You were a combat medic."

"They do send women into combat now, you know? I mean I didn't spend a whole lot of time on women's health, but it happens from time to time. I had to learn how to pick up the signs."

"So you left?" I nodded.

"I decided to come back here. Put enough space between us so that she could have her normal life. Aside from the fact that her boyfriend builds metal suits and flies, she's so normal. She has a steady life and a plan. I was just a strain on her life and her relationship. I figured if I came back here—she'd have less to worry about. She could have a family with Stark. If that's what she wanted."

"You shouldn't have to hide anyway," he said.

"You said that's what you wanted me to do." He didn't answer right away. But then he shook his head.

"You were right. You would have been miserable. You're not meant to hide behind others."

"What other option is there?"

"Just live your life the way you want to. I'll do what I can."

"What makes you think this is how I want to live my life?"

"You came back here."

"I couldn't put my sister in danger. I didn't have any other option. This was the only other place I knew I could go." He took a deep breath and let it go. I felt the force of it as I rested against his chest.

"You deserve to have a life that you chose for yourself. You won't have that if they take you. And you won't have that with me."

"So you're going to leave again."

"You left to protect someone. I have to do the same. I don't have any other option either."

"I wish I could just go with you."

"I wouldn't be able to keep you safe. I can't even protect you from me."

"My safety isn't a huge concern for me."

"It is for me." I sat up and put my hand on his chest. He moved his head to look at me again.

"Just do me a favor this time, will you?" He didn't answer. "Don't say goodbye."

"Goodbye would be best, Jo."

"I know, but—the last time you were here, you said you wanted to make memories that were strong enough to help you get through it if they came back for you. And the fact that you're here now, like this, makes me think it might have worked. If they come for me—I still want to be able to hold onto that—hope." He was quiet as he looked over my face, but then he nodded once.

"No goodbye," he promised.

* * *

Sappy sappy


	30. Chapter 30

Bucky spent the rest of the day going through the book. He didn't bring up what we talked about earlier, probably because he was afraid I'd just hide out in my bedroom again. Or maybe he just thought I wasn't handling it well. Which wasn't entirely untrue. While they were sitting there with their books, I sat on the couch thinking about Russell.

I had a distinct memory of my first real mission. I remembered him trying to cheer me up and assure me that everything would be okay. I remembered thinking that his smile reminded me of my mom's. I didn't think I meant it literally. Just that it was comforting and genuine. But now I couldn't be so sure that's what it was at all. Maybe it really was my mom's smile.

His eyes were like hers too. Such a dark shade of brown that they were almost black, unless you saw them in sunlight. I always thought I had her eyes. Slightly different in shape. Hers were narrower, and mine were wide. "Innocent eyes" is what she called them. But they were the same color. I looked enough like her that I never questioned it. But now I wasn't so sure. Because Russell definitely had those eyes, if I remembered correctly. Narrow. Dark. Almost black. Except in direct sunlight.

My dad's eyes weren't wide or "innocent" either. I never thought much about it before. But now it bothered me. I wanted to see what this Beata woman looked like. I wanted to look at her face to prove that I wasn't her daughter. But I didn't know how to go about that. If her history was as full of holes as mine was, it was possible there weren't pictures of her anywhere.

I tried to watch TV to keep my mind off of it, but I couldn't focus. I'd been sitting there for most of the day, staring silently at the screen. And my attention didn't really come back to the present until I saw Bucky look at me from the corner of my eye.

"Maybe you should get out of the house for a while," he suggested. "So you can think." I shook my head. Thinking was the last thing I wanted to do.

"No, I just need to keep my hands busy," I told him. "Sitting here while you guys read isn't exactly helping."

Then I got up to find something to do. My house was never very clean, but it was never dirty either. It got cleaned as I went and I usually didn't have guests. But I didn't have anything better to do. So I decided to get to work and do something productive.

Graham came into the kitchen once or twice to offer his help, but I kicked him out every time. I told him to go back to his books and the silence since both of those things seemed to bring him comfort. After a while, he stopped asking.

The only problem is that I cleaned too quickly. I finished the kitchen in record time and then sat down at the table to meticulously clean the silverware my grandma sent me when she moved into a nursing home. I'd never had a use for them, and they probably would have fared better with Clara. But it kept me busy and kept my mind occupied.

I heard Bucky before I saw him this time. His steps were still quiet and almost unnoticeable. But I heard him touch the wall to keep himself upright. The sound of his fingers against the wood made a hollow noise that was metallic and unnatural. He appeared in the entryway a moment later.

"Hey, are you hungry?" I asked as I scrubbed away at a silver spoon. "It's a little too early for dinner, but we never had lunch. I could probably try to make something. But there's nothing good anyway. I could order something from that sandwich shop that's a couple of blocks over. How does that sound?"

"Jo," he said softly as he leaned against the back of a chair. I looked up.

"Hmm?" He pulled the chair out and took a seat. He had his back to the entry, and I figured he was putting a lot of effort into trusting Graham not to come racing in with a knife.

"I know what you're doing," he told me.

"I'm polishing my grandma's silver," I pointed out.

"You're trying not to think about it."

"That too."

I went back to the spoon. It was shiny and polished enough, and I'd probably never open the box again, but I kept going anyway. I didn't even like silverware. I thought it was a waste of silver. But they were important to my grandma and she'd given them to me. That was the only reason I kept them.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he said. I shook my head.

"I'm not upset."

"You were earlier. You were angry."

"I wasn't mad. Not with you. It's just—a lot to put on someone all of the sudden. It's a very serious accusation. But I'm not upset anymore."

"You are. If you keep polishing that spoon, there won't be anything left of it." I dropped it into the box a little more forcefully than I meant. His eyebrow rose. Just the one. It was so much easier to read his expressions now. This one clearly said, "I told you so." I picked up another spoon.

"If I keep thinking about it, it'll overwhelm me. And I'm doing everything I can to hold it together right now."

"I won't force you to deal with it, but I've noticed that you have a habit of ignoring your problems until it becomes life threatening."

"What else am I supposed to do, Bucky?" I asked as I waved the spoon around in my hand. "Even if what you're saying is true, what is that going to do for me? I can't find him. I can't ask my parents. I'm pretty sure Clara doesn't know. And if she or Stark even began to suspect you were here, they'd haul my ass off to New York and lock me up in that goddamn tower."

"It might help us figure out what they want you for."

"It won't matter if we don't find him."

"I'll start looking as soon as I can move without pain." I shook my head and went back to the spoon.

"It won't work. You can't find people who don't want to be found. Trust me. You know the last time I saw you? In Malibu? I was hell bent on tracking you down myself. I even went to Sam. And look where that got me. It got me nothing. I didn't see you until you wanted me to. And only because you were bleeding to death."

"I've tracked him before. I can do it again. If I can remember the patterns."

"I honestly don't even care what they want me for. I don't care if what you think is true or not. I don't care if they show up tomorrow or the next week or never at all. I just—don't care." I put the spoon back down on the table, hard enough to shake the legs and rattle the box of silver.

"What do you care about?" he asked. I pushed my chair out and sighed.

"You," I admitted. "The kid, my family, Stark, Steve, Sam. The fucking raccoon in the attic. That's pretty much it." I stood and carried the box of silverware back to the cupboard where it would likely hide in the dark for another five years. I hadn't even finished polishing them, but I was already bored with that task.

"You said you wanted something to hold onto. Why do you want something to hold onto if you don't care whether or not you make it out alive?"

"Because I know what it's like to be tortured. If you have something to hold onto, then you can keep them from getting what they want. I don't want to give them the satisfaction of breaking me." I knelt down on the floor and shoved the box into the cupboard.

"How do you know what it's like to be tortured, Jo?" he asked. I paused with my hand on the cabinet door. Then I sat down and turned around to face him.

"Dreams," I admitted. He was still sitting at the table, but his spine was straight, and he looked ready to jump out of the seat at a moment's notice. "I see things I can't make sense of. Nothing coherent. Just—pain. And fear. I think I'm losing it."

"Losing what?"

"My mind." He stood up slowly and came to my side. He knelt down beside me and hardly winced from the pain, though I was sure I'd seen a flash of it.

"You're not losing it," he told me.

"Then what's wrong with me? I keep seeing things in my dreams. It used to be every once in a while and now it's every time I'm asleep. How can I have spent five years believing something that wasn't true?" His lips were pinched together and his eyebrows furrowed in that usual dark look he took on when he was deep in thought. He pressed his metal hand against the cupboard to balance himself.

"I don't know why they kept you alive, but I have suspicions about why they made you forget," he explained.

"Why?" He took a long time to answer. His jaw was clenched like he was trying not to grind his teeth. His eyes were focused on the cupboard, and his fingers seemed to be digging into his knee.

"You said that I told you I saw something familiar in you," he started. "When I came here before. A darkness is what you called it."

"Yeah."

"I don't think that's it. I don't think I went to you first because I recognized a soldier or a killer or a familiar darkness. I think I knew you. I came to you because you were familiar."

"That's not possible." His eyes moved to mine again.

"Given everything that's happening to you, is it really impossible?" I slumped against the cupboard and wrapped my arms around my knees.

"How, though? What they did to you—it wouldn't have worked on me."

"There could be other ways. You used to work for SHIELD. Your therapist worked for HYDRA. She was in your head. She could have made you believe whatever she wanted. These dreams—these new memories—they began after SHIELD fell. Because there was no one in your head anymore, telling you what to remember."

"Why would they bother with all that?" I repeated.

"I don't know. Your files from that time are almost non-existent. Which means Russell likely kept it secret. But some things have to be put into print. Attacks, battles, death records, medical records."

"So what are you saying?"

"There was a period of three days between the deaths of your squad and your surgery. They wouldn't have waited three days to remove a bullet unless they had a good reason."

"They could have locked me up. Especially if I was killing people."

"There's no record of you killing anyone. There's no record of you being taken into custody. There aren't even records of you being in medical care until three days later. Even if they had you in custody, they wouldn't have let you suffer and bleed for three days. If my suspicions about Russell are correct, he would have gotten that bullet out immediately."

"So what's your hunch?"

"The memories come in flashes, don't they? Not just dreams. Just—a general knowledge of something that happened. You know something is true, but you don't know how you know." I nodded slowly. "I think they had you. I don't know why or what for or why they didn't just kill you when they were done with you. But you saw something they didn't want you to see, and they had to make sure it didn't get out."

"You think I saw…"

"Me."

* * *

Suspense! Doom doom doom.


	31. Chapter 31

We were still sitting there on the kitchen floor when Graham walked in. Neither of us had spoken since Bucky verbalized his last suspicion. Graham halted in the doorway and looked at us with apparent confusion.

"Why are you on the floor?" he asked. He still had a book in his hands. Bucky shot him a glare and stupid up in one quick motion. He reached his arm down to help me up, and I hobbled to his side.

"Just putting stuff away," I explained as I brushed off my jeans. Then I turned back to the sink to look for something else I could clean.

"You know I have some shirts you could probably borrow. They might be kind of tight but—that's probably better than being half naked all the time. I imagine anyway." I spun back around.

"You don't have any shirts in your backpack?" I asked Bucky. He shook his head.

"No," he admitted.

"What do you carry in that thing then?" He didn't answer, but he looked at me, and I guessed that he just didn't want to say it in front of Graham. "I ripped apart your only shirt?" He nodded. "I still have the ones I bought for you the last time you were here."

"You bought me shirts?"

"You had even less than you have now. You kept borrowing Steve's stuff. I'll go see if I can find them." I headed toward the hallway and passed Graham.

"Is there any reason you didn't tell me this before?" Bucky asked from behind me. I spun back around and smiled. He'd asked in a very casual, but almost suspicious tone. He was standing in my kitchen not wearing a shirt. I thought it was fairly obvious why I didn't tell him.

"Take one guess," I said. Then I turned back into the hall.

"Put me out of my misery," Graham muttered.

"I can do that," Bucky replied.

"For fuck's sake. I was joking."

"Damn."

I headed up the stairs to my bedroom. When Bucky stayed with me before, I bought him a few changes of clothes so that he didn't have to keep borrowing from Steve. Only he'd left without them. When I got back from Malibu I found them while I was moving everything out of my storage unit. I stuffed them into the back of my closet. I wasn't even sure why I kept them. Maybe I was hoping he could use them again if he ever came back.

I had to dig my way into the closet to find the backpack, and that was the number one reason why I didn't look for them in the first place. Or so I told myself. I managed to drag the entire thing out onto the bedroom floor. It was heavy with more than just clothes, and I couldn't remember what else I'd stuffed in there until I unzipped it and emptied it out onto the floor. Aside from the clothes, there was a thick heavy roll of black leather.

I almost forgot about them. I knew I still had them somewhere, but I couldn't remember where I'd put them or why I'd even shoved them into the backpack with Bucky's clothes.

I unrolled the pack and looked down at the set of shiny black titanium throwing knives. I hadn't taken them out since Russell gave them to me, but I could still see that they were just as sharp and deadly. I reached out to slide one of the knives out of its pocket. The edges were sharp and razor thin. I slid it out completely and then sat staring at the unusual looking tip.

There was a number etched into the metal. The black titanium made it almost unnoticeable. But when the light caught just the right way, I could see where it had been scraped into the blade with something sharp.

I had another pack of throwing knives when I worked with Russell. But they had been standard steel and military grade. He taught me how to use them, but there had been nothing fancy or extraordinary about them. I had to hand them in before I shipped home. Never even got to use them in the field. I just knew they definitely didn't come with numbers etched into the blades.

These ones were a gift from Russell. He came to visit me in Ohio before I went to work for SHIELD and moved to DC. I was still recovering from my injury, suffering from severe depression. He found me sitting on the hood of my old car eating a hamburger in a baseball field parking lot. He didn't know about the note I'd hastily written before stuffing it into my glove compartment. He didn't know about my plans or the fact that I got the burger thinking it would be the last one I ever ate. But he must have suspected it. I probably looked as awful as I felt.

He sat on the hood with me, and we talked for two hours. I just remembered sitting out there until after the sun went down. The field lit up for a high school game. We watched from the hood of my car. I don't really remember what we talked about. Just that after he left, I ripped the note into tiny shreds and disposed of it. I went back for another burger the next day and once again before I moved to DC. I stopped at that place every time I went home. There was nothing special about their burgers except for the fact that it didn't end up being my last meal.

Before he left that night, he had me walk him back to his rental car. He rolled the knives out onto the hood to show me. I couldn't see the numbers etched into the blades in the dark. As he rolled them back up, he made me make him a promise.

"Don't let them get dull," he said.

I frantically slid the rest of the knives out one by one. Each knife had a different number. None of them were the same, and they didn't appear to be in any particular order. There were five blades in total, and each number ranged from zero to nine. So I'd either been given a partial set, or the numbers meant something. Considering the last gift he gave me was a book full of codes, I decided they probably meant something. I wondered if they were connected, but Bucky might know. So I slid them back into place, rolled them back up, and grabbed one of Bucky's shirts.

He was back on the couch writing in his notebook. I dropped the shirt onto his lap, sat down beside him, and unrolled the set onto the coffee table.

"Holy shit," Graham said from the armchair. "Those are wicked." I slid one knife out and flipped it over my shoulder for Bucky to take.

"Notice anything?" I asked. He examined the blade.

"Number," he said.

"Russell gave these to me before I went to work for SHIELD." I turned to look at him as he began shuffling the pages of his notebook.

"Set them out." He handed the knife back over, and I laid them all out on the table. He looked at the blades, and back to the book, then back to the knives again. He did this several times before turning his eyes on me. "Five is an unusual number for a set of throwing knives," he said.

"I never questioned it. I guess I thought there was one for each finger." He shook his head slowly.

"No. You could only hold two on one hand at each time. At most. Which would leave one extra." I nodded.

"I never carried more than one in each hand at a time."

"Five is an odd number. This number set." He reached out and tapped his finger against one of the knives. The metal against metal made a clinking sound every time they met. "It's a pattern. It's the only constant I've been able to pick out. Out of the first set of numbers, anyway. We couldn't figure out the code because we didn't have the numbers. He gave them to you separately so no one could understand the system without the knives."

"What are they?" I asked.

"Flip them." I did as he said, turning each blade onto the other side. There was nothing on the tips of the blade. But right beneath the hilts, letters had been etched into the metal. They barely glinted off of the light from the window behind us.

"They're vowels," I noted.

"The other numbers change and fluctuate. Likely at the start of a new sequence. Except for the vowels. He separated them."

"Who separated the what from the what now?" Graham asked. He was sitting on the chair, but now more interested in us than the book. He even had his mouth half open.

"Shush," Bucky said.

"Do you think you can figure it out?" I asked as the three of us sat staring at the knives.

"I'm not sure, but it might help." He went back to the notebook and returned to the page where he started copying the code. Then he reached out to touch a knife. "O," he said as his finger clinked against the titanium. "A." He tapped another knife. "A." He tapped it again. Then he went through the others. "E." Tap. "I." Tap. "A. U. U."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"There's a set of numbers not included in this set," he muttered as he reached for a pen and began to write it down on the top of the page. "Number. O. Number. A. Number. Number. A."

"What is that?"

"It looks like it might be spelling out—J.O.H.A.N.N.A."

"Johanna."

"So the next sequence is number. E. I. Number. Number. E. Number. Number."

"What do you think that one is?"

"It's an entirely different set of numbers, save for the vowels. No repeats from the first word, so nothing I can work with."

"How many?"

"Eight."

"So it's not Hayes."

"No."

"Weisberg," I whispered. He didn't say anything, but I saw him write it down.

"It fits," he finally told me. I nodded. "The next sequence is three numbers. A and U. If you're right about Weisberg then it would make the last number a G. The rest after that don't follow a pattern. It might be a date."

"What are they?"

"One, two, one, nine, eight, five."

"Twelve, nineteen-eighty-five." He went silent as I sat there trying to work out what that meant. No doubt he'd already put it together. But at least he was letting me say the words. "Johanna Weisberg. August 12, 1985."

"The day she died," he muttered. I shook my head. He knew damn well that's not what it meant.

"No," I replied. "My birth certificate says I was born on August 13th. I don't think it's mean to mark her death. It's my birthday. My real birthday."

"Wait a second," Graham said as he pinched his eyes. "I thought your name was Hayes."

"It is," I told him. Then we all sat there in silence for a few minutes before I stood up. "I'll go ahead and order those sandwiches," I said.

"Johanna," Bucky replied. I was starting to get used to that irritated tone.

"I'm not avoiding it. I just need a minute, okay?" He probably didn't believe me. Hell, I didn't even believe me.

I leaned against the counter in the kitchen as I called in the order. I didn't ask them what they wanted, but I didn't want to go back in there to ask. Bucky usually never cared anyway. He ate what was put in front of him and never gave me a straight answer when I asked what he wanted.

Once I was done, I set the phone down on the counter and stayed where I was leaning on my elbows. I didn't hear him this time. He just appeared in my peripherals and leaned his back against the counter beside me. He crossed his arms over his chest, which was unfortunately clothed now.

"I understand if you don't want to talk to me," he said.

"Why do you say that?" I questioned. He looked down at me.

"I was there the day she died. I was the reason she jumped." I shook my head.

"You said so yourself. She made the choice. Now I'm starting to figure out why."

"She was alone when I found her. Running toward the city. She was trying to throw me off. Russell wouldn't have left her to defend herself without good reason."

"Where did she die?"

"Cleveland." I nodded slowly.

"She was leading you away from me." Neither of us spoke as we let that sink in.

"I wanted to kill her," he admitted.

"I know." I took a deep breath and let it go. Then I looked back down at my hands and picked at the tile. "What did she look like? Do you remember?" He shook his head once.

"I don't know. I can't remember her features. Just her hair. It was more gold than brown. She was…" He stopped.

"She was what, Bucky?"

"I didn't have to question why Russell wasn't with her. She was soaked in blood. I assumed it was his. I assumed they got to him before I was sent in. She ran like she was in pain. I didn't even have to chase her. I walked."

"They took her body after she fell, didn't they?" He nodded.

"Yes."

"So they would have known. If she'd given birth recently."

"Yes."

"When you said they were looking for me and they just didn't know it was me."

"They must have known she had a child. She and Russell both used different aliases. He was good at falsifying information. They wouldn't know he'd go to his sister or even if he had a sister. They wouldn't have thought you'd have any relation at all."

"How do you think they found out?"

"They had no reason to dig into your past. If they had you before, as we suspect, then they must have assumed you were just a soldier with a memory they wanted to keep locked away. SHIELD hired you to cover HYDRA's trail. They only began digging when you got involved with me. They must have had the missing pieces. Put things together."

"That still doesn't explain why they didn't just kill me and prevent whatever secret they had from getting out."

"I don't know why they kept you alive. But I bet you Russell knows."

"So whatever they want now—it couldn't be because I have something she had. I was just a baby. It would have to be…"

"Your blood."

"Exactly."

"We don't know anything about her. She could have been enhanced. Genetics was her—specialty. She could have done something to herself and passed it on to you. She could have experimented on you willingly for all we know." I shook my head.

"I know what you're getting at. There's nothing special about me."

"You know that's not true."

"I have no talents. No weird skills. I'm just—an average person. Average Jo." I attempted to laugh at my own stupid joke, but he didn't seem to find it funny. Or maybe he just didn't get it.

"Just Jo," he said as he looked around my kitchen. "Jo who may have the blood of a special ops Captain and a genetic research biologist. Jo, who happens to be connected to HYDRA's biggest threats. Jo, who they may have had the ability to control before. What could they do with someone like that?"

"You think they want to use me to take on the Avengers?" He nodded.

"Among others."

"I wouldn't."

"I don't think they would give you a choice." I moved to his side, and he lifted his arms so that I could rest against his chest. His arm came around me, and I locked my hands around his waist. Then I melted into his warmth and shut my eyes.

"So what's your hunch now?" I asked him.

"You're useful to them regardless of what's in your blood. Even if we're wrong about your past, and you really are just average Jo. You're close to Stark and Steve. Even Wilson. You know where they sleep, what makes them tick, what they fear, what they love, WHO they love. You know how to tear them apart. You could destroy their greatest threat from the inside. You could destroy me too."

"You think they'd make me hurt you too?"

"No," he said. "I think they're going to make you kill me." I lifted my head and looked up at him.

"I'd never be able to live with myself."

"I'm sure they're counting on that." He looked down at me.

"You could stop me."

"But I wouldn't. Not if it hurt you." I shut my eyes again and held him closer.

"It was my ears," I told him. "I was free when I couldn't hear. Block out my hearing and they won't be able to control me. I don't care how to you do it, just make sure I don't hurt anyone."

"Jo."

"Promise me you won't let me kill you." He didn't say anything at first, but then I felt him nod.

"I promise," he said. But it didn't sound genuine.

* * *

So much information happening here.

A friend of mine made me this super radical playlist for Monster (also goes well with this one just saying). AND IT GIVES ME SO MANY FEELINGS. Please listen to it HERE. You won't regret it.


	32. Chapter 32

I was already exhausted. It was probably the combination of constant cleaning and everything else that happened during the day. I just wanted to shut down. So after dinner, Graham went back to his book and Bucky went back to his quest to decode Russell's book. But he set it on the arm of the couch and when he noticed me looking sleepy he motioned for me to lie down. I rested my head on his lap and shut my eyes.

"You should go to bed," he said since I didn't appear to be any closer to sleep.

"I would if I could shut my mind off," I explained. But then I sat up and rubbed my eyes. "I think I'm just going to take another shower or something. You can join me if you want."

"Gross," Graham muttered.

"Oh shut up." Bucky glanced between the two of us.

"I'll be up in a few minutes," he decided.

"Do you need help up the stairs?"

"I think I can manage." I stood up and headed toward the stairs.

"Should I get the MP3 player?" Graham muttered. I shot him a glare.

"Probably," I told him. Then I headed up.

"Disgusting," he whispered after me.

I'd already taken a shower that morning, but I didn't want to just sit there and watch TV. I was too exhausted to keep cleaning. There was nothing else for me to do. Maybe I just wanted a few minutes alone. So I turned the water on and climbed in. But then I sat down on the shower floor and wrapped my arms around my knees.

I had to remember something.

Three days, Bucky said. Three days between the day I killed my squad and the day they operated on my shoulder. The surgery was the sharpest memory. I remember waking up. Russell was with me. He told me no one else from our team made it back. We were lucky to be alive. I didn't even know they were dead, let alone that I'd killed them.

My memories were still hazy. I could recall the memories I had before the new ones started, but not with the same clarity. I remembered seeing Jimenez take a bullet as he ran for me. Initially, I saw the bullet strike him from the side. I saw his head snap in that direction. I saw blood splatter against the wall as he hit the dirt.

But now I remembered it differently. I still saw him running for me. But this time, the bullet came from the front and hit him in the forehead. He fell forward from the momentum of his run. I didn't want that one to be real. If the bullet came from the front, it meant it was mine. But Bucky said there was no record of me killing anyone. No record that I'd ever been taken into custody.

And what about the rest of the team? I could only remember killing three of them. But I was still convinced I killed the others too. I just couldn't remember how or when. And I couldn't remember anything passed the memory of shooting Jimenez.

I rested my head against my knees. The water hit me in the back, but it dripped over my face and made it difficult to breathe. My instinct was to jerk back up, get away from the water and spare my lungs. But it felt so familiar. And not the one memory. Not the one I knew for certain was real. But something else. Something connected to the memory of killing all my friends.

I remembered water in my lungs. Fear. The pain in my shoulder. Fingers gripping the hair at the back of my head.

Someone knocked on the door, and I jolted. My heart jumped, and I sat up but kept my arms around my knees. I breathed in sharply as I told myself it wasn't real. I was okay. I was safe. No one was holding my head under water.

"You can come in," I said after a moment. I knew it was Bucky anyway. The door opened, but I couldn't see him behind the curtain.

"Are you sure you want me to join you?" he asked. The sound of his voice eased my anxiety. I wanted his arms around me again.

"Yeah, it's fine."

The door shut, and a moment later the curtain moved back. But he was still wearing his clothes. He looked down at me on the bottom of the shower.

"Are you okay?" he asked. I shook my head.

"I'm fine. But you can't get your stitches wet. I forgot."

"I didn't bring the plastic wrap." I laughed at the thought of him covered in plastic wrap and shook my head.

"It's fine. I'll be done in a minute. I just needed some time to think." He didn't look like he wanted to leave me there on the bottom of the shower, but he probably didn't want to go back downstairs for the plastic wrap either.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine. I'm just—trying to remember." He nodded slowly again. This time, it seemed to click. Understanding anyway.

"I'll wait in your room."

"Okay." He hesitated, but then shut the curtain and left the bathroom. I dropped my head again and pinched my eyes shut.

Nothing else came, and I was almost thankful for it. So after a few minutes, I turned the water off and climbed out. The mirror was foggy, but I hadn't been in there long enough for it to become completely opaque. I caught a glimpse of myself and then I leaned against the counter on my hands.

My reflection usually didn't bother me. I knew I didn't look that great as of late. My eyes were always tired. Not innocent, like my mom said. Warn. Exhausted. My hair was always messy. I was skinnier than I'd been in years. I used to train a lot when I worked for SHIELD. Now my arms were thin. I could see my own ribs. Scars consumed both of my shoulders. One that showed a clear entry mark and surgical line. And the other one, that looked like I'd been shredded.

"Whoever dug the bullet out either didn't know what the hell they were doing or they were trying to make you suffer," that's what Bucky said.

Russell was there when I woke up from surgery. Three days after I'd been shot in the first place. The surgery wasn't to remove the bullet, I realized. It was to repair the damage. From being shredded. From being tortured.

I could still feel those fingers at the back of my head. Digging into my hair as they gripped me and forced my head still. So they could hold me under water that tasted metallic like blood.

Now I understood why Bucky broke my mirror. If I could guarantee that I'd shatter the mirror instead of my own hand, I probably would have done the same. I didn't want to look at myself anymore. I quickly dried off, wrapped myself in a towel, and then headed down the hall to my bedroom.

Bucky was sitting on the edge of my bed writing in his notebook. He lifted his head when I came in and watched me shut the door.

"Are you okay?" he repeated. I shook my head and went to the other side of the bed. I thought about finding another clean pair of sweats to wear. But instead, I just sat on the mattress. I felt him shift behind me. "I shouldn't have come back here," he said.

"Don't say that," I told him. "I'm glad you're here. Even if it means I can't—avoid things anymore."

"Was it easier for you? When you could?"

"No." I took a deep breath and stared out the window. The neighbor's porch light wasn't on. So I couldn't see any shadowy branches. "I always thought there was something wrong with me. When I got home, I believed I had no reason to feel the way that I did. I thought I was selfish for wanting to die. So many other people had it worse. But now I think I must have known something was missing. Whatever I saw there and whatever they made me forget. I could feel the hole it left behind. I also think that maybe the reason I have trouble remembering is just because I don't want to remember."

"And you want to remember now?" I looked down at my hands and examined my fingers. I could still feel the memory of metal cuffs around my wrists, locking them behind my back so that I couldn't fight whoever was holding me by my hair.

"I don't want to remember, but I think I have to. I think I owe them that much. I went to their funerals. I watched them get put in the ground. I talked to their parents and their spouses and their children. I looked them in the eyes, and I didn't even know I was the reason they'd lost the people they loved. If I can remember what I did to them. Or why…"

"The guilt will overwhelm you, Jo," he told me. "I know that better than anyone." I shook my head again.

"I know that. But maybe I deserve it."

I felt him shift again. He moved across the bed to my side. I felt his hand on my back, and I turned my head so I could face him, but I couldn't look at him.

"You don't deserve that," he said.

"If I can remember, maybe I can find a way to fix it. To find—justice for them."

"Guilt can cloud your objective. Justice won't set you free." I finally looked into his eyes.

"Is that why you're here? Because you feel guilty?" I questioned. "You know you put yourself at risk by coming here."

"I'm here because I didn't know where else to go. But I want to help you and find out what they want you for because I feel guilty. I'll never be able to make up for all the things I've done or the damage I've caused. But if I can do one good thing. If I can fix one mistake. Then maybe I can…" He didn't finish his sentence. I didn't think he knew what it would get him if he managed to help me. Because it was like he said. Justice wouldn't set him free. Helping me wouldn't absolve him of his guilt.

"Do you think it was a mistake to come here?" I asked him. He didn't answer right away. But the look on his face told me the answer. It was a mistake. "It's okay," I assured him. Then I moved back around and put my head in my hands. I didn't want to seem emotional, but the entire day had been too much. I didn't want to cry, but I wanted to scream. Or throw something. I did neither.

"It doesn't matter what I think," he spoke. "Because I'm here, and your life gets more and more complicated every day. I can't change that." I sat up and turned to face him again.

"It does matter what you think. Your thoughts and your opinions matter. And it matters to me."

He studied me, sensing that I was upset. His eyebrows were furrowed again, and his eyes were wide. I could see what my mother meant by "innocent eyes." It looked to me like it never occurred to him that his opinion mattered. Despite everything we'd gone through or talked about, and how much of himself he was regaining. It was still hard for him to understand that someone cared to know what he thought. I wanted his opinion, regardless of whether or not I agreed with it.

"I don't think it was a mistake to come here," he finally said. "Either time. Choosing to know you is one of the few good choices I've made in my life." He shook his head and looked away. "I wouldn't change it. But this is the first chance I've had to fix something that I've done. I hurt you. Even if I didn't mean to. I have to make it up to you." I sighed again and moved forward to wrap my arms around his shoulders. I buried my face in his neck and shut my eyes as his arm came back around me.

"You didn't hurt me," I insisted. "You just made me see what was already there."

"I still have to fix it."

"Then we fix what we've done together." He dropped his head on my shoulder, and I felt the metal arm wrap around me too. He held me tightly, but he didn't say another word.


	33. Chapter 33

My breathing halted. Choked off by something in my throat. Water. I could feel it in my nose, leaking into my lungs and burning. I could feel the icy chill of it against my skin as I struggled to be free. There were strong fingers in my hair, forcing my head still as I thrashed and fought. I heard a voice speak from far off.

"Enough," they said. And the hand yanked me back out by my hair.

I choked and sputtered above the basin of blood-tinged water. I coughed and spit it back up as I tried to breathe again. My hands were still cuffed behind my back. My shoulder felt like it was being ripped apart and the blood was dripping out of the wounds and into the water. The pain was almost unbearable. But I couldn't focus on anything other than the water. I just couldn't go back into the water.

A figure stepped before me. I saw his boots appear on the other side of the basin. My eyes focused, and I looked up at his tall and imposing form. There was a light behind him so that his features were distorted and hidden in shadow. I couldn't see much else of the room. The only thing I knew for sure was that he was going to kill me if I didn't give them what they wanted.

"The man," he said. "Your captain. You can start by telling me his name."

"Russell," I said, still wheezing from the water in my throat. "Daryl Russell."

"His real name."

"That's the only name I know."

"When we questioned you before, it was evident you knew more than you were letting on. I can see that you are loyal to your captain, and loyalty is a trait we find honorable. But your captain is not as loyal to you as you are to him. His team has been causing us trouble, killing our men, for years. And yet you still have no idea who we are. Are you so loyal that you kill blindly for a man who keeps secrets from you?"

"Considering how you treat your prisoners, I can't say I regret it," I snapped. The man behind me gripped my hair again and yanked me back. I gasped sharply from the pain but held my tongue.

"I sent my soldier on a task. If he could not bring back the captain himself, I wanted him to bring me a soldier. Not just any soldier. Someone close to the captain. Someone he trusts. Someone he cares for. My soldier chose you. Why?"

"Well," I started. "I'm obviously the prettiest member of my unit." He gave me a forced laugh.

"You are indeed," he said. He moved his hands around his back and began to pace along the basin. I could now make out the features of his profile, but not enough to recognize him. "That's why it is going to be such a shame to drown you. It's my least favorite way to kill someone, you know? It leaves such a mess. Bodies become," he motioned toward his face, "bloated. Ugly. We could always cut you open again. But—you fainted so quickly the last time. Like a poor little butterfly who got a taste of real war."

I gritted my teeth and struggled to be free again, but with my hands behind my back, I could barely move. I was sitting on my knees, and he was holding me up. All I managed to do was move my feet. The man stopped again, and I could tell he was smiling.

"Easy, Soldier," he said to the one holding me. The grip on my hair loosened. I was able to rest on my legs again. "Perhaps not a butterfly," he continued. "Your captain does not collect butterflies. He collects killers." I struggled to move again, but fighting was useless, and I knew it. The person behind me still had my hair in his hand, and I couldn't move my head more than an inch in any direction. I knew it was hopeless to try, but I didn't want them to think I'd given up.

He only laughed and resumed pacing. "The man. Your captain. He has something that I want. Something that was stolen from us. He's hidden it very well. You are going to tell me everything you know about him. And perhaps you are correct. Perhaps he has never told you his true name. But you are the soldier he holds the closest to him. He separated you from the others. Not because you are the pretty, delicate butterfly. But because he would not want to see any harm come to you. So it will be a shame if we are forced to return your body to him, bloated and ugly from all the water in your lungs."

"I don't know anything about him. I do my job. I don't make friends." He stopped before the basin again.

"Do you know why we chose this method, even though it is my least favorite?" he asked as he kicked the basin, causing water to splash onto my knees. I didn't answer. "I told my men to find out as much about you as they could. They said you were almost discharged once." I gritted my teeth again. "No, no. Do not be angry. I still think of you honorably."

"Thanks for your support. It means a lot to me," I replied dryly.

"I asked them to tell me more as I waited for them to finish digging that bullet out of your shoulder. Why did the butterfly cause so much trouble when she cut open her comrade? A man who should have been like a brother to her. Family. What makes a butterfly cause harm to its family? What makes a butterfly into a killer? But it's a simple answer, isn't it? What happens to butterflies when they're sent to war?" He waited for me to answer, but I kept my mouth shut tight. "They told me that the man tried to rip off your wings. What did you do to the man who tried to rip off your wings, Johanna?"

I didn't like the way he pronounced my name. Yo-honna. Like my parents did. It was too personal. Too close. He waited again but got no answer from me.

"I have a better question. What did the man do to you, Johanna, when he tried to rip off your wings?" He kicked the basin of water again. "He held your head under water, didn't he?"

He took a deep breath and resumed pacing. "I asked myself," he continued, "if cutting the butterfly open doesn't break her, perhaps we should remind her of the time she almost lost her wings. So here is my proposition for you, Johanna. You tell me everything you know about your captain, and the butterfly will get to keep her wings. If you don't, I will rip them apart and send you back to him with your lungs full of water and your own blood. How does that sound?" I shook my head slowly, but couldn't move very far.

"I know what you want from him," I admitted. "I know exactly where you can find it too. But I won't tell you anything. You can keep my wings." He tisked quietly.

"Such a shame." He motioned his hand to the man behind me. "Again." I felt the fingers grip into my hair again, and I finally realized what was so unusual about them. They weren't like fingers at all. They were solid, smooth, and cold. He yanked my head back, and I looked up at the man behind me. But the man who looked back didn't look like a man at all. His eyes were cold and dead. He was a monster.

The fingers gripped me tighter when our eyes met. He didn't like me looking at his face. "Please?" I whispered, but it was useless. He swung my head forward more forcefully than before and plunged me back into the ice cold water.

I woke up choking. I stumbled out of bed and hardly remembered where I was and who was lying next to me. I felt the bed move as he shifted. His hand gently touched my back. Not the one that was made to torture and to kill. Just the hand of a man concerned about the woman lying next to him.

"Are you okay?" he asked. I stood up and went to find clothes to wear.

"I just need some—fresh air," I told him.

The sun was starting to come up, and I could see him from the corner of my eye. I could see the shine of his metal arm. I just couldn't bring myself to look at him. I needed to be alone. I yanked some clothes on and rushed out into the hall.

I wanted to escape. To find a place far away where I could gather my thoughts, and he couldn't follow. Then I realized it wasn't distance I wanted at all, just someone to talk to. Not Graham the smart ass kid, or my concerned sister. I didn't want to talk to Bucky about it. I wanted someone who could listen without judgment. Someone just to be there.

Unfortunately, the only people that came to mind were Steve and Sam. But they were both in New York. Sam was looking for Bucky the last time I talked to him, and Steve was busy working with his Avenger pals trying to take down HYDRA bases. I couldn't tell either of them where Bucky was. They were both too sharp and would figure it out. My therapist was probably the next best option. So I took my phone out into the backyard where I couldn't be overheard.

The grass was overgrown and starting to turn brown as the season transitioned into winter. The table set Romanoff set up was gone now. So the yard was empty except for the trail of garbage that appeared to have been dragged over the fence by a raccoon. I took a seat on the back steps where Steve used to sit and talk to the shadows. It was early, and I didn't want to disturb her. But she told me I could call whenever I needed to. She promised to listen.

I found the number on my phone and put it to my ear as I waited for it to connect.

"Hi," I said when she answered. "This is Corporal Hayes."

"Johanna, is everything okay?" she asked me.

"Everything is fine. I just—needed someone to talk to. You said I could call."

"Of course. I'm available to set up a meeting."

"Are you busy now?"

"I'm heading into the office as we speak."

"I didn't mean to bother you."

"You're not bothering me. I don't have a meeting until nine. I like to leave my mornings open in case I'm needed. Would you like to come sit with me for a bit?"

"Are you sure it's not too much to ask?"

"It's what I'm here for, Johanna. Please come."

"Alright. I'll see you soon."

* * *

I'm so sorry.


	34. Chapter 34

Bucky was sitting on the edge of my bed putting his clothes back on when I returned to the bedroom. I could see his bare back when I walked in, and he was covered in the marks I'd left on his skin the night before. I averted my eyes and went right to the closet. I needed something other than sweats to wear, and I couldn't look at him.

"Is everything alright?" he asked.

"Yeah, it's fine. I'm just going to head out for a while. You guys make yourself at home," I explained.

I pulled on some jeans and headed toward the door. But then I stopped when I reached it. Even though I couldn't get the image of him shoving me under water out of my head, the memory of him the night before was fresher. He'd held me so close and so passionately. I'd fallen asleep with a smile on my face and wrapped in his arms. So I turned back around, shuffled to the bed at his side, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and then hurried out of there before he could ask any more questions.

Doctor Watson was already in her office by the time I got to the VA. She let me right in and made me a cup of coffee while I got comfortable on her couch. She brought the small cup over to me and then took a seat in the chair in front of me.

"I assume you had another nightmare," she said as she assembled her notebooks. My fingers were still shaking as I took a sip of the scalding hot coffee. I just wasn't sure if it was because the dream scared me or because I was nervous about talking to her.

"I get them a lot. But—this one was different. It rattled me."

"More than the others?"

"I just—don't know what to do, I guess."

"What do you mean?"

I tapped my fingers against the side of the cup. I wanted to tell her everything. But if she knew I had a fugitive in my house she would probably have to tell someone. I needed to be careful with my words. No one outside of my small group of family and friends knew about my association with Bucky. Except for HYDRA. I didn't want to tell her anything, but Sam knew her. Sam was friends with her. He trusted her, and I trusted him.

"I um…" I started. "Earlier this year, I met this guy." She opened her notebook and nodded. "I'd actually prefer it if you didn't write it down."

"No one has access to my notes, Johanna."

"I know, but I'd really like it if there wasn't paper involved." She nodded slowly and closed the notebook. Then she set it down on a table and gave me her full attention.

"Is this the man you didn't want to tell me about?" she asked. I nodded.

"Yeah. He—things were complicated from the start. A real relationship was never an option so we agreed to not even try. But there was something between us and we finally decided to worry about it when we had to. So naturally everything fell apart." She nodded, telling me to go on.

"He disappeared for a while," I continued. "But then he came back, and I guess it got even more complicated than before. I already knew there were—feelings, I guess. I don't think I was in love with him. I cared about him deeply. It could have been love, you know?"

"I understand. And what happened when he came back?"

"It made everything worse."

"It made what worse?" I looked down into my small paper cup.

"The feelings, I guess."

"Are you in love with him now, Johanna?"

"I don't know. That's the problem. I've never really been in love before. I have no experience with it to draw from. It hasn't been very long. Every time I think I feel it, my brain reminds me that it requires more time before it can be defined. People can't fall in love that quickly."

"New romances tend to be very fun and exciting at first, but those feelings begin to fade after a few months. Sharing a trauma with another person can also bring you closer together. Which may explain why you felt so deeply so early on. Without calling it love. How long has it been since you met?" I shook my head.

"I don't know. I haven't calculated the exact time. It was earlier this year. After the—stuff happened." I motioned toward the window, and she seemed to understand what I was referring to.

"Time can change how people feel about each other. The feelings fade after a while, especially if there's no guarantee that you will see that person again. You can move on. But time can also exacerbate feelings. It's possible that if they haven't gone away and have only gotten worse, that maybe they're genuine. No one can determine that but you." I didn't say anything as I looked into the swirling dark coffee. "What kind of conflict is it that's preventing you from being together?" she asked.

"It's just like I said—a relationship was never an option. And now I'm starting to think that he may have hurt me in the past. Before we even knew each other. It's possible we were connected at some point, and I know he's a different person now. I know he would never hurt me intentionally. But there's a very large possibility that that something he did may have—caused me a great deal of pain. I just don't know how I'm supposed to deal with that."

"You said yourself that a relationship isn't an option."

"That's the worst part of the problem, I think. I still don't want to let him go."

"Even now that you think he may have hurt you in the past?" I nodded.

"I don't think he would have wanted to—if he had a choice. It wasn't something he did because he wanted to hurt people. It was something he was ordered to do. And as fucked up as this sounds, it just makes me more—sympathetic. It makes me want to protect him." I took a deep breath. "The thing is that—I know he's going to leave again. And I don't know if we'll ever see each other again. Let alone when. I don't want to pine for him for the rest of my life but…"

"You don't want him to leave." I shook my head.

"I don't want him to go. But I know he has to. I want him to know that I care about him and that I don't blame him for what he did. He could come back—if he wanted to."

"Does he know that his actions may have hurt you in the past?" I shook my head again.

"I don't think so."

"Then speaking with him about it may help the both of you. If all else, you would be able to tell him how you feel about him. Even if a relationship isn't an option at present. It might make the both of you feel less overwhelmed by what you're feeling."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Can I be frank with you?"

"Please?"

"I haven't known you for very long, and you rarely speak to me when you do manage to find the time to see me. But from what I have seen, you have a tendency to separate yourself from the people you care about. I don't know if it's your way or protecting yourself from being hurt, or to protect the people you love from getting too close to you. You moved away from your family, and you refuse to make lasting relationships with anyone outside of your immediate family.

"Now that you have someone you may actually want to keep around, your mind is finding excuses for why it won't work." I drained my coffee cup as she spoke. "Even if it's true that you can't be in a relationship with him at the moment, for whatever reason, I still think it would benefit you to be honest with him about how you feel. Honesty is something that you struggle with. Most of the time it's with yourself. But in this case, you may need to be honest with another person, and that scares you. If you never see him again, and this is really the end for you—you'll heal from that loss much more efficiently if nothing was left unsaid. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, I get it."

"And it may even help with your nightmares. Honestly, even when you are just honest with yourself, can work wonders. You've been trying not to think about all the things in your past that have hurt you, and so they surface in your sleep. Because they no longer have an outlet any other way. If you allow those thoughts to manifest, even if they're painful, even if you have to cry and rage, they may begin to work toward a resolution. You'll be able to separate yourself from the blame and guilt. Or at least it will help you work through that guilt more positively." I nodded again. "And it might be especially beneficial if you stopped skipping meetings with me." I laughed.

"When were we supposed to meet next?" She picked up a schedule off of her desk and flipped through the pages.

"Well, Johanna. That's the problem. You said you'd make the appointments when it was convenient for you but at no set time. And then you don't call."

"Ugh. That sounds like me."

"How about you come and see me on Tuesdays? Regularly. I'm almost booked solid on Tuesday, but I have an opening from eight am to nine-thirty. You're off on Tuesday's right?" She looked back up at me.

"Yeah, I don't work Tuesdays. That would be perfect."

"Great. Then I will get you penciled in." She went to scribble it into her schedule, and I glanced at the clock. She said she had a meeting at nine, and it was almost nine.

"I'd better go so you can get ready for your meeting. I'm sorry for bothering you again," I told her as I stood up and reached for my bag.

"No, no. Don't apologize. Like I said, I try to keep my mornings open for emergencies. I'm glad we had this talk." She stood up to walk me out, but when I reached the door, she put her hand on my shoulder. "Can I ask you one more question before you go?"

"Yeah, of course."

"You called me because you had another nightmare. I assume it was related to what we discussed. What is it that has you so rattled?" I bit my lip and took a deep breath.

"I saw him this time."

"Is that what makes you think he's caused you pain in the past?"

"Yeah." She nodded thoughtfully.

"Dreams are just dreams, Johanna. Don't let them get to you. The ability to recall things exactly as they were is an uncommon skill. It's possible that the things you see in your dreams are close to reality, but not every detail will be exact. Especially in your subconscious. When we are struggling to work through things, our dreams sometimes bring up bad memories and change what we see to fit the current situation. You can't take your dreams as fact and allow them to control your life." I didn't really know what to say to that. So I just nodded and headed out.


	35. Chapter 35

When I returned home, I found Graham attempting to bake something. I wasn't entirely sure why he was baking so early in the morning, but he could have just been wearing oven mitts and a mysterious apron for fashion. Who was I to judge?

"Hey, where'd you go?" he asked as I located him in the hallway.

"Um—I just had a meeting. Where's Bucky?" I asked.

"I think he's in the shower. Mostly because he came down here and got the plastic wrap and then disappeared again. At least I hope that's what he meant to use the plastic wrap for." I laughed and rolled my eyes. Then I headed up the stairs to find him.

Graham's assumption was corrected. I heard the shower going when I reached the top floor, so I followed the sound of it to the bathroom. I put my hand on the doorknob and wondered if I should go in and let him know I was there. Instead, I went back to my bedroom. I kicked my shoes off and faceplanted onto my bed.

I didn't know what to do. There was still a possibility that it wasn't real. My mind could just be processing things. Maybe I actually was just working through all of the stuff that was going on and my own guilt. But it felt so real. Just as real as the dreams about killing my friends. I didn't know what to think anymore. I didn't want it to be real. I didn't want to have to deal with what it would mean. Bucky probably wouldn't take it very well, but I felt like I had to say something. If he remembered without my help, he would probably panic and leave. Maybe he could just tell me it wasn't real at all, and I'd be able to know whether or not my mind was playing tricks on me.

But then again, he could also tell me that it was real.

I heard the shower shut off, and I groaned. I didn't want to talk about it. I could easily avoid it again, but I wasn't sure if that was a good idea anymore. Like she said, honestly. It could lead toward a resolution. I just didn't want it to push him away.

I sat up and pulled a pillow onto my lap. Then I stayed there waiting for him to come back to my room. He'd left his backpack full of notebooks on the floor. I knew he wouldn't start the day downstairs without them. So I waited until I heard the bathroom door open and he returned.

"Jo," he said softly when he opened the door and stepped into my room.

He was dressed, but his hair was still wet. He shut the door and then climbed onto the bed to sit in front of me. He didn't look anything like the man in my dream. His eyes were light and warm. His expression was concerned. I moved my hand out to push a strand of wet hair out of his face. His expression softened, but he still seemed concerned.

"What did you see?" he asked. I shook my head and dropped my hand back onto my lap.

"You know, the usual," I replied. Then I reached out to wrap my arms around him. I dropped my head onto his shoulder, and he gripped me. He smelled like my soap and shampoo. But his body was warm, even with the metal I could feel under his shirt. The dream wasn't really Bucky. Even if it did happen. It wasn't him. I sighed deeply and shut my eyes.

"What did you see?" he repeated.

"You were digging up information on me before you knew who I was, right?" I asked him. I felt him nod. "So you know I was almost discharged?"

"I saw something."

"Do you know what I did?"

"Assault. With a knife."

"It didn't say why?"

"No."

"Of course not."

"I figured he deserved it." I took another deep breath. His chest was warm, and his shirt was damp. I could feel his heart beating against me. I didn't feel afraid even though I knew I should. I just felt safe. "What did he do, Johanna?"

"I was a woman in the army, James." His body stiffened, and I moved my head into the crook of his neck. "I was cleaning the floor," I told him. "He held my head in the bucket of mop water. I can still taste it sometimes. Dirt. Soap. Blood."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I fought back." He was still, but I could feel his heart beating steadily. "I stabbed him in the leg."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"I would have gotten away with it if I'd just stopped there. I didn't. Once I got him down, I tied him to an exposed pipe, and I cut him open. Everywhere. I tortured him, Bucky. I wanted him to know what it felt like to be afraid." His other hand moved over my back and gripped my shoulder. The metal was gentle. He was making sure not to apply too much pressure. He didn't want to hurt me. "It was a fear that never went away."

"What was?"

"The fear of drowning."

"Is that what you saw?" he asked.

"It was just a dream," I whispered.

"What kind of dream?"

"I saw you. Holding my head underwater." He didn't say anything for a long moment. His body had relaxed, but he still wasn't moving.

"Why?" he asked me after a while.

"They wanted to know about Russell."

"They never used me for that. Not for questioning."

"I know. It was just a dream." I didn't sound convinced, and I was sure he wasn't either. He slid his arms back around and gently moved me forward to put space between us. He kept his hands on my shoulders, and his eyes were narrowed as he examined my face for doubt.

"What did they ask you about him? Do you know who it was?" he asked.

"I didn't see his face. The light was behind him. First, he wanted Russell's name. His real name. Then he said I had to tell him everything I knew about him or…"

"Or what?"

"Or he'd rip off my wings. He called me a butterfly."

"A butterfly," he repeated.

"Does that mean anything to you?"

"No." He let go of my shoulders and moved off of the bed. "But I should leave."

"And go where?"

"I don't know. I just—I need to leave. I need to think."

"Please don't go?" He paused with his backpack in his hand and his eyes met mine again.

"What if it's real?"

"It was a dream."

"So where the others." I looked down at the pillow in my lap and twisted my fingers. "Maybe those aren't real either."

"It was a very specific dream, Jo. Very detailed."

"So maybe the rest of it was real. It doesn't mean it was you. It's not the first time I've dreamt about you." His lips were pinched in a straight line. He hadn't shaved since he'd been there, so hair was growing all over his chin and jaw. He looked scruffy and tired.

"You were quick to believe you'd murdered your squad, but not that I could have hurt you. Only one of those things is probable."

"So what if it was real, Bucky?" Then his eyebrows rose in disbelief.

"Then it means I hurt you."

"It wasn't you."

"Yes, it was." I sighed heavily. "I just find it—amazing—that you can even look me in the eye after that."

"Because I didn't see you. I saw them."

"You're not afraid of me," he stated. I shook my head and looked back at him.

"Do you want me to be afraid of you?"

"It would make a lot more sense to me, honestly. Especially if you're having dreams about me holding your head under water. After you admitted that was your deepest fear."

"That's not my deepest fear. I'm more afraid of losing the people I love. Which is why I don't," I lifted my hand and gestured toward him, "blame you." I looked back at the sheets we'd messed up. I didn't want to see how he reacted to me saying that. It was getting so much easier to read his expressions now. I picked at the pillowcase.

"Even if you knew what you were doing," I said. "You were following orders. That's what I saw. And I was scared of you, yes. I could feel that. But—looking at you now." I looked back at him. "You don't look anything like him. I can see that you're not the same."

"You know someday it's all going to come out. I've destroyed so many lives. Innocent lives, Johanna. You're going to have to see their names, and you'll know it was me."

"But it wasn't. And I'll defend you as long as I can." He dropped his backpack to the floor and turned his back on me. He shook his head as if he couldn't believe that I was still defending him.

"I don't know what I did to deserve that," he muttered. "From you, of all people." He turned back around and reached for the backpack. But I slid to the edge of the bed and reached out to stop him. I wrapped my hand around his metal wrist and looked up at him. I was never any good with words, and I didn't know how to make him believe that he deserved anything I was offering. But I had to say something.

"No one gets to decide that but me," I told him. "You deserve to have people who care about you and want to protect you. Even if you don't think that you do. You deserve freedom and forgiveness for all of the things they forced you to do. I didn't kill my squad. They did. You didn't hurt me. They did." His other hand came out, and he pressed the pad of his thumb against my chin.

"I don't deserve you, Johanna."

"That's not for you to decide either. You have me. Whether you think you deserve it or not." I held onto his hand, and he laid his palm against my cheek. "Don't go?" I repeated. He opened his mouth to speak but nodded once instead. "Don't go downstairs either?" He smiled and shook his head again. "Just stay with me for a while, please?"

"You know he's making breakfast, right?" I pulled him to me, and he dropped the backpack again. He moved back onto the bed and pushed my legs apart to rest between them.

"He can wait a while." I pulled him down onto me, and he leaned against his metal arm. The other hand moved my hair out of my face. He pressed his forehead against mine and closed his eyes. Then he sighed.

"It's not going to last," he said. I shook my head.

"If there's anything I've learned from this whole ordeal, it's that you have to take advantage of what you have while it's in front of you."

"Mm," he agreed. "You're right. The kid can wait." Then his lips found mine, and he didn't speak again.

* * *

So... I just realized something that makes me feel like a complete idiot. Jo's (not) birthday is August 13th. Which is... Sebastian Stan's... actual birthday...

I did not know this until this morning, when it was pointed out to me. I think I must have read that it was his birthday at some point, and just like internalized that date without anything to associate it with. So when it was coming time to make Jo's birthday I was like "August 13th sounds good." *facepalm*

This is hilarious to me. Because last night I was literally thinking "Huh, Jo's a Leo. So's Sebastian." But nothing... fucking... clicked...

I could have easily brushed that off as totally intentional. But then I would be seated on a throne of LIES. Totally not intentional. Just a fucking doofus.


	36. Chapter 36

"MP3," Bucky said from behind me. He was breathing heavily, though not nearly as bad as I was, and this was the first coherent word I'd heard him speak for a while. In English anyway.

"What?" I asked as I turned onto my side to face him. We were lying sideways on the bed, and his legs were hanging over the edge of the mattress. His feet actually managed to reach the floor in that position.

"The MP3 player. Do you think he got it?"

"I forgot he was here, to be completely honest."

"So did I."

"Well, I'm sure it was the first thing he went for after I came up here to find you." He smiled. He apparently found this very amusing.

"He made breakfast," he reminded me. I pinched my eyes shut.

"Aw, man. Now we have to get up." He reached his hand out to stop me from getting out of the bed. Even though I hadn't actually made the attempt to do so. The metal was shockingly cold against my bare skin.

"Don't go?" I lifted his hand and slid my fingers between his. He shifted his attention to them.

I was going to tell him that we had to go back downstairs, or let him know that I didn't want to. But instead, I ran my fingers over the back of his so I could feel all of the ridges and plates and smooth metal. He didn't pull away, and I couldn't judge what he was thinking.

"Can you feel me?" I asked him.

"I don't know," he admitted. Then he looked back at me. "I feel something, but I don't know what it is. It's like knowing that you're there but not feeling you. The memory of feeling. Signals." He turned his gaze back to his hand and spread his fingers. The plates shifted to accommodate the movement, but he didn't release me.

"It's become part of you," I observed.

"Yeah," he murmured. "But I don't think it's ever been used this way before. Wasn't made for this."

"What way?" I knew what he meant, but I wanted to hear him say it. He glanced at me and moved our hands. He touched his finger to my chin but kept my hand locked in his.

"It's a weapon," he told me. "It wasn't meant to touch someone like this." I moved closer so that my head touched the metal as I ran my hand up his arm. "Don't leave," he said. I smiled and looked back up at him.

"I know that your recovery rate is probably spectacular, but mine isn't. And I don't want to leave, but I'm starving. I didn't eat before I left." He groaned and dropped his other arm over his eyes.

"Fine."

He sounded so grumpy. I couldn't help but kiss his lips before I climbed out of the bed. His metal arm dropped onto the mattress, and he didn't move from his spot until I'd already found something to wear and sat back down beside him. The notebooks from his backpack had spilled out onto the floor when he dropped it. I could see little tabs sticking out of the pages he marked.

"Hey, Buck?" I asked as I pulled my socks back on.

"Mm?" he replied lazily.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" He only hesitated for a second.

"Yes."

"What are the notebooks for?" He stayed silent, but his arm came off of his face, and he blinked at me.

"They help me remember," he explained. "I write things down. So I don't lose them again." I nodded slowly in understanding and then turned my whole body onto the bed so I could face him. If I wasn't starving, I would have stayed in that bed with him all day. He was lying on top of my blankets with nothing but the shadows of tree branches on his body. I regretted getting dressed again.

"That's a good way to hold onto things, I guess."

"It helps."

"You have so many of them."

"A lot of time I'm trying to account for. Some notebooks represent different things."

"Aren't you worried someone will find them?" He moved his hand out to touch his fingertips to my knees. Using a weapon to touch me gently again.

"I'm more worried about losing myself again than someone finding them," he told me.

"I see."

"Here. Let me show you something." He stood up and reached for the notebook he used to write down all the codes from my book. Then he handed it out to me. I was reluctant to take it. I held the notebook in my hands but didn't open it.

"Are you sure?" I asked him. He nodded once.

"They're your memories too," he said. Then he turned to get dressed while I ran my hands over the navy blue cover. I didn't want to intrude on his personal thoughts. Even if they were about me. But I was curious.

I opened the cover and looked over the scribbles he'd written on the first page. It seemed to be a basic fact sheet. He'd written down my name, age, birthdate. Information he must have collected while trying to figure out who I was. He even had military information, the names of my parents and my sister. I turned the page, and the information changed. It was no longer just basic facts anyone could have picked up on a thorough search. He was asking questions now.

 _Who is she?  
How does she know who I am?  
Why does she count her heartbeats?_

Sometimes he'd written the questions down forcefully. I could see where he'd scratched the pen so roughly into the paper that it was showing through on the other side. He'd scribbled things out in apparent frustration. But then the questions evolved into facts as he was apparently starting to remember things. Not just stuff he could have picked up on a search.

 _Washington. DC.  
Black eyes? Brown. Sunlight.  
Brown hair.  
Waitress? Agent.  
Pink knife. It sparkles?  
Doesn't like to carry guns.  
Nightmares.  
Soldier. Special Ops?  
Corporal. Combat medic.  
Johanna. Jo._

I looked up at where he was pulling his pants back on and not paying any attention to me. I wondered why he was allowing me to see this. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to keep reading. It was hard seeing him try to work through things, and I didn't know how old it was. It could have been from months ago. It could have been yesterday. I turned the page anyway, and the statements turned into sentences.

 _Waffle maker,_ was the first word.

 _She likes olives on her pizza. I don't think I like olives._ This was news to me. He never complained. He never asked me to leave them off. Every time I asked him what he wanted, he always just told me to get whatever I wanted. I wondered if there were other things he didn't like but didn't have the heart to tell me.

 _She sighs when she sleeps.  
There's a raccoon in her attic. She gave it a name.  
She's alone. She doesn't like to be alone. I think she's lonely. I think it's intentional.  
She holds that knife like an extended limb. She's trained with it.  
What is the name of the goddamn raccoon? Rocky? No.  
Steve trusts her.  
She likes old television shows. She likes sad things. She said she likes things that make her feel.  
ROCKET.  
I think she loves me. ?_

That was the last word on the page. He'd underlined it. There was even a question mark. He left the remainder of the page blank as if he intended to go back to it when he finally had an answer for the question.

"Still hungry?" he asked as I sat there staring at the words on the page. I looked back up at him and nodded. I was trying to come up with reasons for why I couldn't answer that question, but looking at him standing there in my bedroom all I could think about was how my heart felt so full. I felt dumb and giddy and terrified all at the same time.

"Yeah, I'll be down in a sec. I need to brush my hair. You did a number on it," I explained.

He smiled and reached for his backpack. I watched him stuff the rest of the notebooks inside, but he didn't ask for the one I was still holding in my lap. I guess he didn't want me to see what was in the other ones, and I didn't blame him. I didn't want to see them either. I could only imagine what else he was trying to come to terms with.

"I'll meet you down there," he said. I watched him head toward the door, but then he stopped once he got it opened. He kept his back to me. "What happened to him?" he asked.

"Who?" I replied.

"The man. The one who tried to hurt you."

"Oh." I looked back down at the notebook. "He got a slap on the wrist. I didn't see him again."

"You don't know where he is now?"

"No."

He turned and headed out the door. I could hear him go down the stairs, slowly, but steady enough for me to notice that he was healing. Which meant he was going to leave soon. I didn't know why he wanted to know that or what he was going to do with that information. But I decided that I just didn't care.

I reached for the pen that was sitting on my nightstand. There was more in the notebook that I could read, and I could even see some of those little tabs. But I just didn't feel right looking at it anymore. They were his private thoughts, regardless of whether or not they were about me. I just kept going back to what he'd written on that page. _"_ _I think she loves me,"_ it said. I tapped the pen on the edge of the notebook a few times before I put it on the paper and wrote, _"_ _She does."_

* * *

Buck's like way super sweeter than I intended him to be. But I'm not going to change it because we all know that forcing myself to write a certain way does not work out very well for me. Crispy marshmallow Bucky strikes again.

Also. This chapter is a bit of a milestone. Since the first story was 36 chapters, I made it my goal to get this one to at least 36. So once I got to this chapter I threw a mini-celebration. I was so happy. Still have about 10+ chapters left after this point. But this chapter is special to me for that reason. *Throws confetti*


	37. Chapter 37

I knew Bucky was planning on leaving. His wounds were healing too quickly. Though he still seemed to be in some pain, he was getting better at hiding it. He could get up and down the stairs without help. He could move without wincing. He was starting act like the injuries weren't there at all. We never talked about what we would do when he left, but I could see that he'd already made the decision in the morning. All I managed to do was stall him for a little longer.

We spent the day just like the ones before. The only difference is that he spent more time with me than on his notebooks. He seemed more comfortable touching me whenever we were close. He wrapped his arm around me on the couch, or just sent me one of those half smiles from across the room. But I knew what he was doing. He wasn't being more affectionate because he wanted to. He was just trying to soften the blow.

Later that night after we cleaned up, he took my hand and we headed up to my room even though it was too early to sleep. I thought he might want to talk about whatever he'd uncovered in the book the rest of the day, his speculations, or even his dreams. But he didn't bring the book, and he didn't speak. When we were alone in my room, he kissed me in the dark, peeled off my clothes, and pinned me to my bed. He was no longer in too much pain to move, and he only spoke in whispered Russian. I fell asleep in his arms reluctantly. I knew he wouldn't be there in the morning.

I woke up alone. The backpack and notebooks were gone, and there was no evidence that he'd been there at all except for my wrinkled sheets and the one pillow that he'd gripped in his metal hand so hard it was mangled out of shape. I laid in bed for a long time. I hoped that he'd just gone downstairs early. Maybe he was just in the bathroom. But I knew hoping was useless. I couldn't hear Graham talking to anyone downstairs, and he didn't come back.

Eventually, I had to get out of bed. I had a job and a life I had to get back to. Once again, he hadn't stayed very long. But he left a mark. It was invisible this time, but it still hurt.

I could hear Graham singing to himself when I walked down the stairs. There was no one in the living room. I found Graham dancing in the kitchen as he cooked breakfast in a pot on the stove. He'd been wearing the headphones almost nonstop since the day before. When we didn't warn him and then shifted my bedframe at least a few inches. I went right to the coffee maker.

"Jesus shit!" Graham said when he spotted me. He yanked the headphones out of his ears. "You scared the bejesus out of me."

"Sorry. I think that was unavoidable. You were singing really loud."

"I was going to make oatmeal for breakfast. I hope you guys are hungry. I made way too much." I decided to forego creamer and sugar altogether. I was going to need a kick in the teeth to make it through the day. I filled my mug and turned back toward the hallway.

"Bucky's gone," I told him.

"Gone where?" he asked.

"Just gone."

We didn't say much for the rest of the morning. Not until we were on the road to the VA.

"So," he started slowly. "I got an interview at Arby's."

"Did you? I didn't get a call?" He pulled out Stark's MP3 player and waved it in his hand.

"I downloaded a phone app and the email stuff."

"Oh—I didn't even know it could do that." He shrugged and moved his fingers across the screen. He seemed to have no trouble getting the hang of the thing.

"It's the most high-tech thing I've ever seen. Like man, you said it was an MP3. It's not. It's like a fully functional computer. Apple wishes they were this good."

"Don't let Stark hear you say that. It'll go to his head. But just FYI, he probably has JARVIS scan your emails."

"It's only for work stuff anyway. So does he have a name for this thing or is it just 'MP3?" I shrugged.

"I have absolutely no idea. If it does have a name, it's probably really stupid or obnoxious or only makes sense to smart people." He did a few things with the small screen, and I focused on the road.

"So why'd he leave?" he asked after a long silence. I didn't even have the radio on, and I regretted my habit of not turning it on.

"He always leaves," I told him.

"Yeah, but—you guys were like really close. Like disgustingly close. Like rabbits close." I rolled my eyes and sighed.

"His life—the things that he does—I can't really be part of that."

"Why not?"

"I'd be a burden. He wouldn't be able to protect me."

"Dangerous stuff?"

"Yeah."

"I understand that. Sometimes the best way to protect the people you love is to push them away. Still totally lame, though."

"Yeah."

"Is he going to come back around again? I was kind of sort of starting to like him. Since he stopped pulling weapons on me and trying to choke me out in the hallway."

"He tried to choke you out in the hallway?" He gave me a shifty glance before turning back to the MP3 player.

"Well, I mean—it was just the one time."

"You're serious!"

"He just sort of—wanted to threaten me a bit more. To make sure I wasn't secretly like working for Nazis or anything and going to ruin your life or kill you or whatever."

"Still!"

"Well, he could have actually choked me, you know? He was surprisingly gentle with that metal hand of his. Didn't even leave a bruise!"

"He used his metal hand?"

"Well, yeah. He was trying to scare me."

"Oh gosh. I'm so sorry. I really didn't mean for you to get involved or threatened just for staying with me."

"Nah, it's cool. He's a crazy strong dude who wants to protect his girl. It could have been a lot worse. Probably would have been if you didn't keep scolding him." I shook my head.

"That still wasn't very nice."

"The only time I ever saw him 'being nice' was when he was talking to you. But it's cool. I'm over it." He turned toward the window again, and I kept my eyes on the road.

"You know you're surprisingly calm for someone who had their life threatened thirty times in the past four days." He shrugged.

"What can I say? I'm a chill dude." I laughed. "Nah, I've just seen worse. Guy trying to protect the girl he loves isn't as scary to me as—other things." I nodded.

"I know what you mean."

"That's why you're not scared of these HYDRA people, huh?" I shook my head.

"I don't know. I'm scared. I am. But it's more like—I've just accepted it, you know? I just kind of wish they'd hurry up and get on with it so I don't have to keep waiting. Maybe I can have a life again."

"With Bucky?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

We were quiet as the hospital came into sight. Graham kept his mouth shut until I turned into the garage to look for a place to park.

"You're like super bummed out, though, aren't you?" he asked.

"I'm fine. I knew it was coming," I told him.

"I can hear it in your voice." I sighed again.

"I just—Can I tell you something honestly? Like a secret. Between the two of us?"

"Yeah, of course."

"I think—that I might love him."

"Well, no shit."

"I'm trying to open up to you, you doofus." He reached over and ruffled up my hair in an almost brotherly manner. It was the exact same way Stark used to ruffle my hair whenever he found me camped out on his balcony in Malibu.

"I'm just saying. I knew that already. And I know you're feeling kind of shitty and you miss him and all that sappy romantic stuff. So I'm only going to say one more sappy, romantic thing before I go back to being my ridiculously manly self."

"What's that?"

"He's in love with you too, you big nerd." I found a place to park and focused on that because it was easier than trying to think about what he said. But before I reached for the door handle to get out, he spoke again.

"Hey," he said. I turned back to look at him. "For real this time. I'm sure he feels the same way. I'm sure it hurts him too. But he's doing what he thinks is best for you. And it takes a lot of love—and self-control—to not be completely selfish." I nodded slowly, but I couldn't think of anything to say.

"Thanks," I muttered. Then I climbed out of the car.


	38. Chapter 38

I wasn't sure when I was going to see Bucky again, but I had the general sense of what he was doing. I didn't believe that he'd left just to protect me. He still had those "time sensitive" issues he'd been dealing with before his injury forced him to take a break. Now that he could move well enough on his own, there was no reason for him not to get back to it. But I was certain whatever he was up to now involved me too. Maybe it always had, but I wasn't sure until he dropped his speculations on me. And when I got home from work I realized he'd taken Russell's book with him.

Clara called me while I was waiting for Graham to finish with his job interview. I was sitting in the car bored out of my mind, trying to find a decent station on the radio. Then JARVIS cut through the music.

"Miss Hayes, forgive me for interrupting," he started. "Your sister would like to speak with you."

"You can put her through, JARVIS," I told him. Then I flopped back into my seat since I could no longer play with the radio.

"Right away, ma'am," he said.

"Jo?" Clara's voice said through the speakers.

"I'm here," I replied.

"Why are you in your car? Are you eating lunch?"

"No, I'm just—hanging out at the Arby's." She was silent for a second.

"Are you messing with me? It's hard to tell sometimes." I laughed and leaned my arm against the window, but it just made my shoulder hurt.

"I'm waiting for Graham to finish with his job interview."

"Oh okay. That explains it."

"So what's up? What's going on?"

"Um. Well. You never called me back like you said you would."

"Oh, right. Sorry. I forgot."

"I figured."

"So what's up?" I really hated talking to her through the car. Unless I was driving. I had nothing to do with my hands and my shoulder hurt. I moved so that I could rest my head against the window instead and thumped as she took her time answering.

"I just had something I wanted to talk to you about. Something kind of important," she explained. Here we go.

"Is this about the uh," I started. I waved my hand even though she couldn't see me. It was a nervous reflex. "The gremlin? Growing in your body?" She was silent for a moment.

"How did you know about that?"

"I kind of figured it out."

"But how?"

"Well, first you started wearing regular shoes, which was the first red flag. Then you started getting unnaturally lazy. Going to the bathroom a thousand times a day. All things I could have easily overlooked if it wasn't for the fact that you switched to decaf."

"And that made you think I had a gremlin in my body?"

"You guys always seem to forget that I had medical training."

"Yeah, but I thought you just learned how to stitch people and pull bullets out."

"That was my specialty, yes. But it's kind of obvious when a woman you've known as a caffeine junkie your entire life suddenly decides to up and quit for no reason. Cold turkey even. That must not have been easy."

"How did you know that caffeine was a no-no, though?"

"Seriously? I just got done saying I was medically trained. You guys really need to write that down somewhere."

"But they taught you that in the army?"

"They taught me a lot of things."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"About training or your gremlin?"

"The gremlin."

"Because it wasn't my business."

"Sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I was just—trying to figure out what to do."

"Are you keeping it?"

"Yeah, that much I know. It's just—hard to tell with Tony. I think he's happy, but I also think he's really freaked out."

That explained a lot. Of course it wasn't just luck that kept Tony away while Bucky was at my house. He was preoccupied. Now I was certain that if he hadn't been distracted by Clara's predicament, he probably would have confronted me about the stranger in my house face-to-face.

"I can imagine that he's freaked out," I said. "I would be too."

"That probably had to do with the fact that you refer to children as gremlins."

"Some gremlins are cute."

"Some."

"The one."

"Which one?"

"Yours will be cute. I'll like that one. Especially if you name it Gizmo."

"I'm not naming my child Gizmo."

"Gizmo Stark is a good name."

"Not happening."

"At least a middle name. Anthony Gizmo Stark Junior."

"I'm not naming it after Tony either."

"Fine."

"You can call it Gizmo. But only you. Like a nickname."

"Deal. When is it going to come screaming through your vagina?"

"Jesus Christ, Jo."

"It's a valid question."

"You could have asked it a little differently, don't you think?"

"Nothing like brutal honesty to remind you of the horrors of childbirth." She sighed audibly.

"I don't have a due date yet. I don't really have anything planned at all yet. But I have an appointment. I'll let you know once I know."

"Good plan."

"Will you be there? For the birth, I mean?"

"If you guys want me to."

"Of course I want you there. You're my sister." I thumped my head again and shut my eyes. Sister. Right.

"I'll be there. Just tell me when and where," I promised.

"You won't be grossed out?" she questioned.

"Medically trained, Clara!"

"Okay, alright."

"I've seen much worse than your vagina, I'm sure."

"Can you stop talking about vaginas please?"

"You should probably get used to it."

"Ugh. Well, now that I got that out of the way. What's going on with you? How's work? How's the guy friend?" I almost groaned. I thumped my head on the window again.

"Work is good. Same old same old," I told her.

"Guy friend?" she asked.

"Graham is good."

"I'm not talking about the kid."

"Other guy is—complicated."

"How so?"

"He comes, and he goes. Goes more than he comes."

"Is that a euphemism?"

"No, you pervert. I just meant—he's not around a lot."

"You said the word 'vagina' like nine times and I'm the pervert?"

"Vagina is a medical term."

"I don't know why I even bother. So you like this guy that goes more than he comes?" No, I hated it. I missed him more than I thought I would. I couldn't sleep at night. I couldn't stop thinking about him. I felt pathetic.

"Yes," I lied. "It makes things easy."

"Right. So no luck getting him to accompany you to mom's Thanksgiving dinner?"

"Not a chance in hell."

"Not ready to meet the family?"

"Nope. I might bring Graham, though." The front door of the Arby's opened and I wanted to sing at the sight of my lanky young friend.

"Will he ever be ready to meet the family?" Clara asked.

"Graham? Sure."

"Not Graham, you dork."

"Don't know. But I have to go. Graham's done with his interview."

"Alright. Call me back. If you can remember."

"I will." Graham popped the door open and slid into the car. The screen went back to normal, showing me that Clara had disconnected. "Hey, how'd it go?" I asked him.

"Well, the good news is that I got the job," he told me as he buckled up.

"What's the bad news?"

"Bad news is that I'm strictly forbidden from throwing things at people."

"How unfortunate. When do you start?"

"I need to come back tomorrow to get my uniform, and then I start on Thursday."

"Awesome. I'm so proud of you." He sighed and leaned into the seat as I pulled out of the parking lot.

"I thought I blew it. I'm so bad at interviews. I think they wouldn't even have hired me if I wasn't military. I'm not good at anything." I shrugged.

"Take advantage of it, kid. No one is naturally good at anything. You'll learn to be good at things."

"I'm going to give you my first check. Since I've been eating all your food and sleeping in your spare bedroom. And you gave me the MP3."

"I don't want your money. I just want you to rebuild your independence. I know what it's like to be young and not have any idea how to do anything. It's easier when you have someone helping you get on your feet."

"Yeah, but you can't be making enough money for the two of us."

"I worked for Stark for half a year. I have enough money to last us. I did think about getting another job, though. Just so I can have something to do on weekends. Especially if you're not going to be around much anymore."

"You should apply at Arby's." I shot him a dark look.

"I would last about five minutes at Arby's. You think throwing burritos is bad."

"That's right. You're the knife throwing girl. Got that Hawkeye aim." I snorted.

"I don't think I was ever that good."

"Did you ever meet him too?"

"No. I did meet Romanoff a few times, though. I think that's it for Avengers."

"Daaaang," he whispered.

* * *

I know this is a tad filler-y. But I wanted Clara to actually confirm Jo's suspicion and I apparently left it out in the first draft. So I was initially just going to add a brief conversation about it to the next chapter but it sort of turned into a whole one. And it made me laugh so I kept it. I think this is a bit of a hint of pre-war Jo too. She shines through every once in a while. And she was kind of a sarcastic little shit.


	39. Chapter 39

After I dropped Graham off for his first day of work, I headed back home to get ready for my meeting. The week was almost over, and I wasn't looking forward to another long weekend. Technically the job at the VA wasn't even enough to sustain my bills and basic needs, but Stark paid me so much when I worked for him that a lot of it had built up. Mostly because he refused to allow me to buy anything for myself while I lived with him. But I was going to have to find a job anyway. Just in case HYDRA never came for me at all. I might as well make myself useful.

When I got home, I headed right for the kitchen to make myself another cup of coffee. It wasn't the first cup I'd had, but I wanted to be able to get through my meetings without Graham. I poured myself a mug and then turned around. There was a figure in the archway. I jumped and dropped the cup, sending hot coffee splattering all over the floor.

"Goddamn it!" I said.

"Sorry," Bucky replied as he stepped forward. I bent down to pick up the shattered remains of my mug.

"What are you doing here, Buck?" I asked as I carried the chunks of ceramic to the trash.

"Stitches need to come out."

"You should have stayed an extra day or two. They were only supposed to stay in for a week at most. At least for someone with normal healing."

"I know, but…" He didn't finish his sentence so I turned back to clean up the spilled coffee.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me. I knew you were going to leave."

"Were you upset?"

I dropped a towel onto the floor and looked up at him. He was wearing the clothes I'd given him, plus the jacket he'd brought with him. I managed to get the blood stains out of it, but there were still rips and tears from all the shrapnel. I never got around to fixing them. He was wearing a hat and had his dark hair tucked behind his ears to keep himself inconspicuous.

"What do you want me to say, Bucky? You want me to tell you I wasn't upset? That it didn't hurt? That seeing you in my kitchen again a week later makes everything okay? You would know if I was lying." He knelt down in front of me and focused on cleaning up the mess. I stayed standing where I was.

"I didn't want to hurt you," he said. I sighed.

"I don't think we could have avoided that. I knew you were going to leave. I knew you would do it in the middle of the night. I also knew I couldn't come with you. I wasn't surprised. But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt to wake up alone."

"You told me not to say goodbye."

"I know that too. But I don't know. Maybe I was just hoping for something—more. Some kind of acknowledgment that it wasn't—over."

He stood up and ran the pad of his thumb over my jaw. It felt nice to feel him again, but what I really wanted to do was wrap my arms around him and beg him not to go. I felt like an idiot. I knew what he was doing and why. But it didn't mean I had to like it.

"I'm not mad at you," I insisted. "I'm just…" I put my hand on my chest and squeezed my shirt in my fingers. He nodded without me having to tell him what I meant.

"I probably shouldn't have come back."

"No, I glad you came." I reached for the coffee soaked towel he'd left on the floor and then passed him so I could take it to the sink. "I'll get my stuff. Just go lie down on the couch." He nodded and headed back toward the hallway.

I got my kit and made sure I had everything I needed to pull his stitches out. When I returned to the living room, he was sitting on the couch. He didn't move until I motioned for him to take off his jacket, hat, and shirt. He was wearing the red one I bought him. The backpack was sitting on the armchair. He didn't bring it into the kitchen with him. So I wondered if he was already there when I got home and I just didn't notice.

Once his shirt was gone, I motioned for him to lie down. I knelt on the floor beside the couch and got to work on the larger wound. It was almost entirely healed already. Pink and scarred but healed. The scars probably wouldn't last very long either.

"Jo?" he said as I worked.

"Mm?" I replied. Then his metal hand lifted from the side of the couch and touched the back of my head. He pulled me toward him, and I leaned forward, pressing his forehead against mine. I immediately dropped the shears and gripped his shoulders.

"I had to go," he said.

"I know," I told him.

"I didn't want to."

"I know." He didn't let me go, but he said nothing else. So I held onto him and took advantage of the fact that he was close to me again. I don't think he understood how much I missed him. "Where were you?" I asked after a moment. He let me go, and I went back to work on the sutures.

"Coordinates," he said.

"What did you find?"

"Nothing. Just the side of a highway."

"What about the book? Have you figured out the rest of the code?"

"Some of it. I found more coordinates. One is an empty warehouse in Hell's Kitchen. Another in Sokovia. I haven't had time to go that far. I wanted to stay close."

"You went all the way to Ohio and New York and then back?"

"Yes." I shook my head.

"Sheesh. You must be exhausted."

"I'm not."

"Right. I forgot about that spectacular recovery rate." I moved to a smaller section of stitches. "Well, as your doctor, I recommend at least one night of rest. And some pizza. With no olives." Then I looked back up at him. "For health reasons."

"Of course." I smiled and went back to work.

"I have to go to work in about an hour. Then I'll have to pick up the kid from Arby's. Today was his first day."

"I'm glad to hear that." He sounded genuine. For a moment I actually believed he was happy for Graham. But I figured he was probably just happy that we were one step closer to Graham moving out.

"Then I'll grab a pizza and come back. Promise me you'll be here when I come home?" He nodded.

"I will."

"Thank you." I continued my work, and he watched me quietly. He made no complaints or gave any indication that he was uncomfortable or in pain. I began working on the final set of stitches on the side of his head when he spoke again.

"I can't stay for long. I think I have a lead on Russell," he explained. I almost paused.

"Really? Where?"

"Less than an hour away from here."

"So close?"

"I figured he might try to stick close to you. If we're right about him, he wouldn't be too far away. You haven't been back long. I looked for newer listings. Someone renting short term, minimal paperwork, names that could be aliases."

"That must not have been easy."

"He has a pattern. Avoids paperwork as much as he can. Sticks to motels or short term leases. Usually on a ground or second-floor level. He's good at falsifying legal paperwork, but he leaves behind clues. Has different aliases for different purposes."

"How do you think he'll react if you show up?"

"If he's anything like he was the last time, he'll have a gun to my head."

"I thought you only remembered his wife. That she led you away from him."

"No, I found them once before. I think—I'm not sure—But I think I let them go."

"Why?" He hesitated. He was staring at the back cushion and couldn't exactly turn his head since I was working on the stitches. But it was easy to tell he was hesitating.

"I don't know," he lied. I removed the final stitch and ran my finger over the small pink scar in his hair. It would probably be gone in less than a month. Then I turned his face back toward me.

"You're lying," I stated. He studied my eyes.

"How can you tell?" he asked.

"Because you hesitated. You took a moment to decide whether or not you should tell me the truth. Why did you let them go?"

"I was awake too long trying to track them down," he told me. "She called me by my name. She called me James. It felt—familiar." I ran my fingers over his head and smoothed his hair out of his face.

"She got through to you?" He shook his head and looked away. His face was grim.

"I couldn't bring her in," he murmured. "I don't think it's because she got through to me. But because she was pregnant." I paused for a moment, and his eyes moved back to mine. But then I turned and began cleaning up the mess. He sat up and gripped the edges of the couch. "They never told me. I don't think they knew," he continued. "I let her go. They found out that I almost had her. They made me pay for it. The next time I went after them—I didn't know who she was. I didn't remember. I had no sympathy anymore." I stood up and kept my eyes off of him.

"When did you remember this?" I asked.

"I went back to the overpass. I remembered that it wasn't the first time I'd seen her face." I headed toward the kitchen so that I could put everything away. "You have her eyes," he said from behind me. "Not the color. The color is his. Dark. Almost black. Her eyes were light. Blue maybe. Gray. But the shape. I remember them. They were like yours."

"I…" I paused when my phone started ringing in my back pocket. I sighed heavily and yanked it out. I didn't need to see the caller ID to know exactly who it was. So I brought it to my ear as I continued to the kitchen. "I'm fine," I said.

"Who's in your house?" Tony asked.

"Who's your villain of the week?"

"Hilarious."

"It's my guy friend. Just chill out."

"Not the kid?"

"No, not the kid."

"The other one."

"Yes."

"Is it serious? Should I meet him? You won't even tell me his name."

"I appreciate the protective older brother thing. I promise if it becomes serious I'll let you meet him. I may even tell you his name first."

"Are you safe? Do you need help? We need a code word. Clara, what's a good code word?"

"I'm fine. I don't need a code word. I'm an adult with a guy friend who comes around on occasion. Butt out."

"Fine."

"Thanks."

"For now." I groaned.

"I can't imagine what your poor gremlin is going to have to suffer through."

"My what?" I hung up and put the phone back in my pocket.


	40. Chapter 40

I didn't bother to tell Graham that Bucky was back, just in case he didn't come through on his promise to stick around. But I got a pizza anyway and listened to Graham tell me all about his first day. He was proud to inform me that he didn't throw a single thing all day, and I promised to hold a mini-celebration if he made it through the month without throwing anything.

When we got home, my house appeared empty. I hid my disappointment and told myself he'd probably show up again later. I carried the pizza into the kitchen, and Graham followed after me, oblivious to the fact that I was looking for someone.

"And then I got an order for like twenty sandwiches," Graham was telling me. I set the pizza down on the counter, went to reach for a plate, and then heard Graham gasp loudly from behind me. I turned around to find him leaning on the table with his hand over his heart. Bucky was standing in the doorway. "You scared the shit out of me!" Graham said. Bucky just glanced at him, but I could detect amusement.

"Good," he decided.

"Hey, you stayed," I noted. He nodded and turned back to me.

"I promised."

"Why didn't you tell me he was back?" Graham asked. I shrugged.

"I wanted to see him scare the shit out of you." Bucky actually smiled that time. I turned back to the cupboard.

"Well, even though I just peed my pants a little, I'm glad you're back," Graham told him. "I was kind of growing to almost like you. Even though you think I'm a HYDRA guy." I turned back around.

"He doesn't think you're a HYDRA guy."

"He definitely thinks I'm a HYDRA guy."

"I think he works for HYDRA," Bucky confirmed. I groaned.

"He doesn't work for HYDRA," I replied.

"Well, this not HYDRA guy is starving," Graham said as he came to my side to get a slice of pizza. "Oh no olives this time?"

"Bucky doesn't like them. What happened with the guy and the twenty sandwiches?"

"Oh, I took forever to get the order filled. But he was super cool about it. Like, I had a lot of help, but I liked that I didn't have the urge to throw the sandwiches at him, you know?"

"I'm glad to hear that. I hope you continue to experience the feeling of not wanting to throw things at people."

"I'll probably be sick of this shit in like a week, though."

"Probably." He took his plate and disappeared into the living room. Bucky was still standing in the exact same spot. "He's not HYDRA," I told him.

"No," he agreed. "Maybe not yet." I sighed again.

"He wouldn't."

"You don't know that."

"I do know that."

"They could get to him just to get close to you."

"You're right. Maybe I should never make friends ever again for the rest of my life. Just in case." I paused. "He's not going to turn on me."

"I don't think you know him well enough to say that."

"No, but I like to think I'm a decent judge of character."

"You dated a guy who worked for HYDRA," he reminded me. "While you were dating." I turned back around to make him a plate.

"But see, I KNEW he was an asshole. So I still think that counts."

"Then why did you date him?" He walked to my side and sounded genuinely interested in the answer. I just wasn't sure what his motive was. Jealousy wasn't really his thing, but I couldn't figure out why else he would benefit from knowing the answer. I stuck a slice of pizza on a plate and handed it out to him.

"Because I was lonely, Bucky. Is that what you wanted to hear?" He took the plate and shook his head.

"No."

"He was nice to me at first, okay? He was military. There was something off. But I was military too. I thought we might just be dealing with the same thing. It never occurred to me that he was working for HYDRA because at that point in time, HYDRA was just something I learned about in ninth grade history. He was the first person to show a genuine interest in me for a very long time. I held onto that instead of trusting my gut. But that weirdness was there, and it just got worse, I ended it before it went too far."

"How long did it take?"

"Too long."

"Then how do you know you can trust the kid?"

"Because the darkness I see in him isn't violent. There's no rage or anger. Just pain. He's just a kid with no family. He lost everyone he loves. He's suffering, and he masks it with humor."

"What kind of darkness do you see in me?"

"I see both rage and pain. But you don't use humor to mask it. You just run."

"But you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because even though there's darkness in you, I can see you moving toward the light. I can see that you want to. And your anger isn't directed at me, or even Graham. Plus I think—I don't know—maybe it just hurts a little less when you're not alone."

I got myself a plate and headed toward the living room before he could say anything.

After dinner, Bucky insisted that we needed to go over what he'd found while he was gone. So we excused ourselves to my bedroom and sat down on my bed to go over the papers he'd compiled. He had the book, the notebook, and numerous different pieces of paper all representing different sections of code.

"The first few words were easy once I got the vowels," he explained as he set them out. "The code gets more complicated as it progresses. It evolves. The vowels get you started, but then it switches again. Each section of code hides a clue about the vowels in the next section. Not to mention, the coordinates scattered through the code makes things confusing. There's no warning for them."

"What do you think the coordinates are for?" I asked. I looked over the papers, but nothing popped out at me.

"I'm not sure. I wanted to dig, but I was right next to a busy highway. Even at night, it was too noticeable. The warehouse in New York was empty. I can't say whether or not there's anything buried. I'll have to get my hands on more equipment. I just can't say that it would be worth it."

"What's your hunch?"

"What makes you think I have a hunch?" I gave him a look.

"You always have a hunch."

"I think the coordinates are significant to Russell specifically. The side of the highway in Ohio, an abandoned warehouse in New York, a church in Sokovia."

"I don't understand."

"One of the other words I managed to pull out using the same pattern I used to find your name, was Beata Frindt. There's more on her than there is on Beata Weisberg."

"What did you find?"

"She was born in Sokovia."

"You know my grandparents were from Sokovia too, right?"

"I know that. I think that he either went back, or he was stationed there for a period of time. There's a possibility they both worked with Sokovian Intelligence briefly. I don't know why the church is significant to him. Maybe they were married there. Maybe it's where they met. Her trail ends abruptly. The only record I can find is that she was associated with a private research company called IGH. There's nothing on them at all, but I think I know where they were located."

"In Hell's Kitchen."

"Yes."

"And the highway in Ohio?" He hesitated again and fiddled with some papers instead of answering. I waited patiently.

"The highway passes through Cleveland. Not far from the overpass where she jumped. The exact coordinates are about thirty minutes out of the city. She was covered in blood when I found her. Likely hemorrhaging. I think the coordinates represent—where you were born."

"On the side of a highway?" I questioned.

"Yes." I shook my head.

"What makes you think that?"

"Because they were on the run. Russell wouldn't have taken her to a hospital. They must have already made the plan to take you to his sister. She likely went into labor while they were still on the run. Russell would have been capable of handling the delivery. They were already headed toward the city, she left you with him and distracted us so that he could get you to safety. The autopsy would have indicated there was a child, especially if she was still hemorrhaging when she died. By the time they figured it out, you were already hidden. Russell's alias had no association with Ivan Weisberg at the time. They wouldn't have known."

"Beata was married to him." He shook his head.

"Frindt was her maiden name. Weisberg was my suspicion. Not her legal name. They both used aliases. The Daryl Russell alias had no association with Beata's aliases. Probably for that reason."

"Then how can you be sure Daryl Russell and Ivan Weisberg are the same person?" He looked at me again.

"I just am."

"In that dream I had—when I was being questioned—they were asking for his name. I don't think I knew what they meant."

"They must have suspected him. They were probably trying to find you. They wouldn't have expected him to keep you so close."

"None of this makes any sense."

"I don't know. I don't have all the answers. All I can do is speculate."

"And you still think he's my father?" I asked him.

"I'm certain that he is." I sighed, and he reached out to put his hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. It's not your fault. Just kind of overwhelming. And confusing."

"I understand." I leaned forward on the bed and rubbed my eyes. "Do you want to go to sleep?" I nodded.

"Yeah."

"I'll get this put away."


	41. Chapter 41

We didn't sleep. At least not at first. Bucky promised to stay the night, and I knew he wouldn't be there in the morning again. When we were lying there in the quiet and the dark, my heart wouldn't stop pounding. I felt his lips on the back of my neck, and his arm moved around me. I had my back to him at first, but I couldn't stay that way. I rolled back over to face him and touched my lips to his.

I wasn't really tired, and he obviously wasn't either. We both knew it might be a long time before we saw each other again. There was no point in pretending we were going to sleep anyway. His heart was beating as quickly as mine, and he moved me onto my back.

When I finally did fall asleep, it was to the sound of his heart beating as I laid on his chest. He was lying on the pillow he'd destroyed in his metal hand. My heart felt heavy because I knew he was going to leave, but I didn't want to fall asleep knowing it was going to end.

I woke up when he moved. He gently moved me out of the way and slid out from under me. He left the bed, and I could still feel his warmth lingering in the sheets.

"You're leaving again, aren't you?" I asked him, mumbling into the misshapen pillow.

"I promised to stay the night. It's almost morning," he told me.

"I was going to make you waffles."

"We can have waffles next time."

"Mm, you think I'm just going to let you back into my bed every time you come around?" He sat down beside me, now with his jeans back on. He leaned down and kissed me on the corner of my mouth, then dragged his lips to my neck, where he gently grazed his teeth on my skin. I stretched and let out a moan. "Okay. Next time. Waffles." He laughed lightly and then left the bed again to find his shirt. "Will you promise me?" I asked after another minute of silence.

"Promise what?"

"That there will be a next time?"

"I'll do whatever I can to make sure there's a next time." I heard the backpack zip up, and I knew this was probably goodbye. Even though we promised there wouldn't be one. So I sat up and forced my eyes open. It was still dark, but I could make out the shape of him pulling the backpack on over his jacket.

"Here, take this with you," I told him as I lifted the wonky shaped pillow and handed it out to him. He took it and even in the dark I could tell he was confused.

"Your pillow?"

"Your pillow. The one you mangled." He still seemed confused. "You know—like a memento. A wonky pillow to remind you of how you mangled it."

It took a moment to click. He opened his mouth to respond. He probably hadn't even realized he'd clenched the pillow in his hand at all. But I did. Because I knew damn well WHY he'd gripped the pillow, and it made my heart start beating faster. But then he seemed to get it, and he nodded.

"I'll keep it close," he promised.

"Plus, I imagine you'd like to have your own pillow. Even if it is shaped weird."

"It would be nice."

"And you could carry a piece of home with you wherever you go." He held the pillow and stood back silently. "You know—so that you know you can come back. And there will be waffles. And morning sex—probably." He let go of a short laugh.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He leaned forward again and kissed me on the lips. "I wish you didn't have to go," I said when he pulled away.

"Me too. But I'll be close by. If I find Russell, I'll send him to you." Then he moved out of my reach and headed toward the door. I remembered what my therapist told me about honesty. How it might make things easier. Even if he didn't feel the same.

"James?" I said when he reached the door. He turned around.

"Yeah?"

"I um…"

"Don't say it."

"How do you know what I was going to say?"

"I have a hunch. Just—save it. For next time."

"What if there isn't a next time?"

"I'll push harder for a next time. That way I can find out if I was right or not." He must not have read what I wrote in his notebook. I watched him open the door and step out into the hall. It was illuminated only by the nightlight at the top of the stairs.

"You were right," I whispered. He paused before closing the door. He apparently heard me.

"I know," he replied. "And I feel the same." Then the door shut, and he was gone.


	42. Chapter 42

Bucky promised to send Russell my way if he happened to find him, but I heard nothing. Graham managed to keep his job at Arby's and didn't throw anything by the end of the month. He even got his own phone and was looking into finding a cheap apartment. I would have gladly offered to let him rent from me, but I was afraid of him getting further pulled into my bullshit.

Since I was not used to having extra time alone with no one to talk to, I decided to go ahead and find that extra job. Graham suggested Chipotle, where I could put my Hawkeye aiming skills to use with burrito projectiles and take the heat off of him. But once Tony caught wind that I was looking for work, he magically procured something for me to do from home on my laptop. Which ended up being the simple task of organizing, editing, and labeling his personal notes and blueprints. Something his assistant or JARVIS was more than capable of. But he claimed he didn't trust anyone else and JARVIS was too snarky. I didn't complain because it kept me busy on my off days.

After a month, I came to the conclusion that Bucky hadn't tracked down Russell. The only thing I knew for sure was that he was still close by. Not just because he told me he would stay close, but also because I came home one day to find a new bathroom mirror sitting on my couch.

To be honest, I was upset that he didn't stick around longer. But I wasn't surprised. Graham helped me get the mirror set up and then I went to my room to be alone. There was a box sitting on my bed.

It was a metal lockbox. It looked standard military grade. Even the same ugly shade of green. There were scratches on the lid and dirt stuck in the crevices. It looked like it had been buried and dug back up.

I made certain that Graham was asleep and listening to his MP3 player before I got to the box. The key Bucky found in my book was stashed away in one of my drawers. He told me to put it somewhere safe, and I didn't know where else to put it. So I pulled it out of a sock and sat down on my bed with the box. It looked like he at least tried to wipe it off.

It took a great deal of courage to put the key in. I was worried it was going to be too packed with dirt to fix, but the keyhole was cleaner than the rest of it. Bucky must have cleaned it out for me. The key slid in smoothly, and four half a second I hoped it was the wrong key so that I didn't have to see whatever was inside. But I heard the lock click and the lid popped open and dusted my comforter with dirt and rocks.

I didn't want to open it. Not without Bucky there. I wanted him to learn about whatever was inside. Maybe it would help him do whatever it was he was doing. Maybe it would tell us exactly what HYDRA wanted from me and how to stop them. But he must have already determined that it wasn't something he could use if he didn't stick around to see it. He probably already knew it was personal. And the only thing I could think of that would explain how he knew that, is that he must have found the man who buried it.

Even if that were true, I just wanted him to be there so I didn't have to face it alone.

I took a few seconds to psych myself up for it. Then I told myself to stop being such a baby and just get it over with. So I opened the lid and kept my eyes pinched shut. "Big baby," I muttered, and then I forced my eyes open.

It was full of letters. They were still in their envelopes and wrapped up with twine. There were several stacks of them, but each one looked like my mother's handwriting. Only they were all addressed to different names in different places. The return addresses were different too. Not my mom's name, but definitely her handwriting. The only thing out of the ordinary about them was that dates had been written on the front of each envelope. The earliest one I could see was from October of 1985.

I lifted that stack first. Might as well start at the beginning. I pulled the twine to release the stacks and picked up the first envelope. It had already opened, and the paper was delicately fragile. Apparently about as old as I was. I pulled the letter out and then slouched in disappointment.

It was written in code.

"Well, that's just great," I mumbled.

There were no translations, which meant whoever she'd sent the letters to must have memorized the code enough to read without translating. I was going to go ahead and guess the letters were written for Russell. Since it was his box and his key, but the code didn't help me a whole lot. I'd have to ask for Bucky's help translating them. Even then it was going to take me years to get through all of them. Provided they were all in code.

I folded the letter and stuck it back into the envelope. Then I lifted the next one. It was thicker than the first one and dated only a few months later. I slid the letter out, glanced at the code, and then unfolded it. Two pictures dropped out.

They were rather old. At least in regards to my lifetime. The first was a picture of a gurgling baby lying on a bed. I recognized my mother's floral bedspread. The baby was drooling and wearing a god awful red fluffy dress with ribbons and ruffles. There was even a little bow in the baby's brown hair. I was pretty sure the baby was me even though I'd never seen the picture before. I turned it over and looked at the back. "Johanna. Christmas 1985," it said. The next was a picture of Clara and me. She was wearing a similar red fluffy dress and sitting by a Christmas tree. But she was holding me awkwardly, and I was drooling again. The back of the picture said the same thing. "Johanna and Clara. Christmas 1985."

I dropped the pictures and the letters back into the box, put my hands over my eyes, and flopped backward into my pillows. I wanted to scream again. Throw the box across the room and break something. I didn't have to read the codes to know what they were. I thought back to all the times I caught my mom writing those coded letters at the kitchen table while we did our homework after school. Every time I asked I got the same answer. "They're for your father. He likes puzzles," she would say.

Of course it was only natural for me to believe they were for my dad. The man who raised me. Her husband. Clara's dad. Not some unknown uncle I'd only ever heard about in silent whispers at holiday dinners.

The letters were written addressed to a different name every time. All to and from various addresses. All written in code. To protect me. So that my mother could keep Russell (I was assuming) updated on my life.

I didn't know why he'd buried them or when. Or why he left me codes and keys and couldn't just outright tell me. That was the worst part of it all. I could understand my parents not wanting to tell me to protect me. Or because they knew it would hurt to learn the truth. But Russell. He could have told me. I spent years of my life training with him, working with him, and he never said anything.

Unless he did and I just couldn't remember it.

I sat up sharply. I remembered exactly what I'd said in that dream where Bucky was holding me underwater. When I was being questioned about him. I said I knew exactly what they wanted and where they could find it. I couldn't remember enough to know if I was telling the truth, but what if he did tell me?

I stuffed the photos and letter back into the envelope and shuffled through the stacks to find the most recent one. One stack was dated in 2002. I would have been in high school still. I undid the twine and picked up the bottom letter. It was dated just a month after I was discharged and went home to Ohio. I quickly pulled the out the single slip of paper. It wasn't written in code this time. There was no name on the top. No need for a code because it only said one thing, written in my mother's beautiful scrolled handwriting.

"She's not doing too well. I'm worried."

That was it. I looked back at the address and the postmark. It was around the same time he came to find me in Ohio. When he found me in a baseball field parking lot eating what I thought would be my last meal. That's when he gave me the knives with the vowels. I slapped the letter against my hand a few times. If this was the last letter, it meant he'd buried the box shortly after. This was before I went to work for SHIELD. There were no more letters after that because my mother had nothing else to say about me. I wasn't around. But I wouldn't have been able to find the box without the book. When did he give me the book?

I couldn't remember. Not a date or a timeframe or anything. Just the canvas cover against my palms. The scent of coffee. The sound of clinking dishes. It was in a café. Not a funeral. The funeral was a different time. He was wearing black then. His hair was cut short and only slightly graying. He was wearing a sweater at the café. His hair was longer. The gray was more prominent.

We were in New York.

Why was I in New York? I shut my eyes and tried to bring up the memory. I could see him sitting across from me at a table. We both had cups. The sweater he was wearing was blue. His hair was longer, and he looked more like a civilian than a soldier. There were windows next to our table. I could see Stark Tower at the end of the block. Broken. Pocked with holes. A single solitary A was left hanging on the side of the building.

I went to New York to see Clara after the battle when she took on a Chitauri with a staple remover. Stark had sent his personal driver to pick me up from the airport. He brought me back to the tower.

Russell was there to check on her too. Maybe he knew I'd be there to see her. Or maybe he just genuinely cared about his niece. I remembered what Clara told me. That he used to send her dresses every Christmas before he disappeared. I couldn't remember him contacting me, but we met for coffee, and he slid that book into my hands as if he expected me to read it and pick up the abnormalities. To lead me to the buried box full of letters from my mother.

I glanced over the rest of the letters to see if anything else would stick out to me. That was still the latest date I could find, and none of the others were written in plain English. Some were thicker than others, which meant they probably had pictures in them. But I didn't feel like looking at them right now. I'd seen enough pictures of my childhood.

I closed the box back up, dropped it on the floor beside my bed, and then laid down and stared at the shadows on the walls. I didn't have the first clue about how to start decoding those letters. I wished Bucky had stayed.

* * *

"I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but almost always end up where I need to be." –Douglas Adams.


	43. Chapter 43

The next morning, I had to drive Graham to work. We stopped at a gas station to fill up, and I left him by the pump while I headed inside to pay. I could see him outside waiting by the pump in his little Arby's uniform while I stood at the counter. He was singing along to whatever song was playing over the speaker system. And then a black SUV pulled into the lot and parked behind him.

My stomach twisted in knots, and I took a deep breath. It was just a car. SUV's didn't mean anything, and I saw a lot of them while living in DC. But ever since a whole fleet of them had run me off the road, which resulted in me getting shot, they tended to make me a bit nervous.

I told myself not to be so paranoid. Getting a box full of childhood pictures and coded letters written by my mother made me a bit jumpier than usual. A guy climbed out of the back of the SUV and headed toward the door. I got my card back from the attendant and glanced out the window again. The guy had gotten in line just behind me, but no one else had come out of the car. No one was waiting to pump gas. It took about three more seconds for the gears in my mind to click into place. I recognized him. I didn't know where I knew him from, but I was confident I'd seen his face before. And that probably wasn't a good thing.

Graham was now pumping gas into my car, still singing and apparently unaware that anything weird was going on. I moved my hand back around to pull my phone out of my back pocket. The man in the line suddenly stepped forward and nudged me up against the counter. I could feel the barrel of a gun press against my spine.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he warned.

I glanced at the kid again, the SUV, and then back to the attendant who seemed to be realizing that something weird was happening. I kept my eyes on her.

"He has a gun," I said. "You should call the police."

She immediately dropped behind the counter, and then man yanked me back by my arm.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said as he guided me toward the door.

"You think I was going to let you put her life in danger?" He pushed the door open and yanked me out.

"Her life wasn't in danger. Your little friend, though. He's not going to be so lucky."

He marched across the lot toward the SUV, dragging me along beside him. My heart was pounding. I had to get Graham out of there before he could get hurt. He heard us coming and turned around to say something, but his eyes went wide.

"Get in the car and lock the doors. NOW!" I said.

He didn't react for a split second. He looked like he was trying to come up with an argument, but the guy lifted his gun in his direction, and he bolted toward the car. He narrowly scrambled inside before the weapon went off. The bullet struck the window just as he shut the door. It left a thick crack but didn't make it through the glass.

"Still borrowing from Stark, I see," the guy said.

"Of course," I replied calmly.

I could see Graham peek out over the edge of the door. The glass would only hold for so long. But now that I knew he was safe for the time being, I could fight back. I swung around and cracked the guy in the face with my elbow. He jerked back and let out a yelp. I took that moment of freedom to run for the car, but I only made it a few more feet before another shot rang out, and I toppled to the ground hard. My calf exploded in pain. My palms, knees, and chin scraped against the cement as I hit the pavement.

The words, "Son of a bitch!" escaped out of my mouth.

The guy's hands gripped my hair and yanked me up onto my knees. One of my legs wasn't responding very well, but I could lean on it. So I kicked my other leg out and felt it connect with his knee. He tumbled over me, squashing me back down onto the ground and knocking all the air out of my lungs. I heard the car door pop open.

"Jo, what do I do?" Graham called out to me.

"Get back in the goddamn car!" I yelled. "Call Stark!"

We scrambled to be free of each other, and I rolled onto my back just as the guy pinned my arms down to my sides. He got me across the cheek with one quick punch before I jerked forward and hit him in the chin with my forehead. It probably hurt me more than him, but at least I managed to get free again. I gave him one more good knee to the stomach before hobbling to my feet. But then I couldn't move. There were two more agents with their guns on me. Another one left the SUV and joined them, but he had no weapons that I could see. Just a fancy suit that made him look more like a politician than a HYDRA agent. I didn't recognize any of their faces. Just the first guy. I just couldn't come up with a name. Though I was pretty sure I knew where I recognized him from now.

"We don't want to hurt your friend, Hayes," the suit said, motioning toward my car. I could see Graham in the front seat now, looking like he was panicking and shouting at JARVIS or Stark. "You come with us, and we won't have to."

"What will you do to him?" I questioned.

"I have enough ammunition to blow him into a thousand pieces. Just like that girlfriend of his." I shook my head and tisked. I was breathing heavily, and I could feel blood soaking the back of my jeans. I couldn't put any weight on my foot. I was pretty sure I'd ripped holes in both my knees. Everything hurt.

"That was really low. Even for you."

"Then get in the car."

I took a deep breath and decided to follow instructions. I wasn't going to chance it. I couldn't let Graham get hurt, and I hated myself for insisting that he stay with me instead of just having Stark give him a job or helping him get a motel to stay in. The street was busy with cars, and there were plenty of people in the store. I couldn't let anyone get caught in the crossfire. So I limped toward the SUV, and the agents followed me with the barrels of their guns. Then I heard my car door open, and my heart dropped.

"Jo, what the hell are you doing?" Graham shouted as he stumbled out of the car.

I turned back around to watch him. He had a gun in his hands, and I had no idea where it came from, but I wasn't surprised. Tony had to have had at least ten different weapons stashed in my car somewhere. He must have told him where to find it. He stepped over the gas line that was still attached to my tank. The agents turned their guns on him, and he stopped.

"What are you doing?" I snapped.

"I'm trying to save you, you big dummy," he replied, holding the gun up. He obviously knew how to use it, but it didn't look like he wanted to. I was sure he wouldn't get one shot off before they covered him in holes.

"Hayes," the suit warned. So I limped toward Graham. He turned his eyes to me but kept the gun pointed at the suit.

"Get in the car," he told me. I shook my head.

"I can't do that. And I apologize in advance," I replied.

"What are…" he started, but I swung my arm forward and punched him in the face. I felt my fist connect with his nose, blood spurted out of his face, and he dropped like a ton of bricks. I kicked the gun out of his reach and turned back toward the SUV. "What the hell?" Graham muttered from behind me.

"Leave him alone," I said to the suit. One of the agents was waiting for me by the open door of the SUV. I climbed in before Graham could regain his senses and try to fight back.

"Good girl," the suit said as he moved toward the passenger seat.

"Call me that again and you'll be next."

"She's a little feistier than I remember," one of the agents said. It was the one who'd shot me in the goddamn leg. His lip was bleeding from when I headbutted him in the chin. My whole head was pounding, and I regretted not aiming for his nose too. But he was also twice the size of Graham and likely wouldn't drop after one punch.

I took the backseat and was joined by an agent on each side. The other one took the driver's seat, and the suit took the front passenger seat. They peeled out of the lot before getting the doors closed all the way, and we left Graham sitting there on the pavement, bleeding and looking pissed off. The suit handed a handkerchief out to the agent with the busted lip.

"We got her," he was saying into the mic attached to his ear. "We need to get her out of here fast. Stark probably already knows we have her. No sign of the Soldier."

I crossed my arms over my lap and felt for the pink knife I stuffed into the pocket I sewed into my sleeve. None of them were paying any attention to me now. The one on the right still had his gun out, but the one on my left was busy sopping up the blood on his face. The suit was busy listening for instructions and the driver obviously couldn't do anything. So I slid the knife out as quietly as I could, clicked it open, and swung.

I hit the guy on my right in the thigh. He yowled and dropped the gun onto the floor. The car swerved, and the guy with the busted lip grabbed me by my neck. He pulled me against him and yanked my arm up in an attempt to pry the knife out of my hand. My shoulder ached, but I wasn't going to give up. My hand was slippery with blood, but I managed to keep my grip on it. I lifted my one good leg and kicked out, smashing the other agent's face into the window with my foot. Then the stupid suit spun around and his gun pointed between my eyes.

Then I couldn't move. I was breathing heavily, and bleeding profusely from the leg. But I stayed right where I was. I kept my grip on the knife and kept the other guy locked to the windshield with the bottom of my sneaker.

"Let him go," the suit warned.

"What are you going to do? Shoot me again? I thought they wanted me alive," I replied. He shrugged.

"Accidents happen." I pushed my foot harder. Squishing the tip of my shoe against the guy's nose. He grunted but kept his hands on his bleeding thigh. He didn't fight me.

"She's right," the one holding me said. He had his arm wrapped around my neck. It was tight enough to hold me down, but not enough to choke me. "They said we couldn't kill her. They told me she's important."

"She's not important. She just banged the Winter Soldier, and they want to use her as collateral."

"You don't know he'll come after me, right?" I pointed out. "If you're lucky, Stark or Rogers will get here first."

"Oh, hon. You actually think you left an impression? Women always think they can change a man. I almost feel sorry for you. And Rogers and Stark won't get here in time. You should have gone back to New York. You made this too easy."

"I told you we should have just tazed her. Would have made this even easier," bleeding chin guy remarked.

"She would have pissed herself," the driver said. "I'd rather smell blood."

Bucky warned me that something like this would happen, but all I had was his word. And to be completely honest—I really didn't care. Even stuck there in the back of an SUV with an arm around my throat and a gun pointed at my face. The only thing I cared about was that Graham managed to make it out with nothing but a busted nose and that Bucky wasn't there. I just wanted to ensure that I did some damage on my way out. I wouldn't be able to live with myself (or walk to my death) knowing I hadn't at least blackened a few eyes or stabbed a few guys in the leg.

"Uh, we got company," the driver said as he glanced the rear view mirror several times. The suit with the gun looked over the back seat. I could hear the rumble of an old engine, and while he was distracted, I went back to struggling to get my knife free.

"Goddamn it, Hayes," the guy holding me said as he tried to pry the knife out of my fingers.

"She fucking stabbed me," the other one muttered through his squished face.

"You deserved it," I told him.

And then all hell broke loose. The car with the loud engine slammed into the back of the SUV. I was launched off of the seat, whacked my head, and dropped my knife. A gun misfired, the SUV screeched and swerved, and then two more bodies flopped over onto me as we crashed to a halt.

Nothing happened for a few seconds after the SUV stopped. I was buried under two bodies and couldn't see anything but the other guy. I didn't have my knife anymore, or I probably would have slashed him. But then again, my arms were pinned. I could feel blood on my face. I wasn't sure if it was mine or someone else's. I could hear groaning and cursing, and then a door opened. The driver yelped.

"Shit," the suit said as something jumped on the hood and shook the whole car. "Shoot him, shoot him!" he yelled, but no one was able to respond.

"Well," I said as I struggled to get free. "Either Rogers and Stark were close by or I left an impression."

The stabbed guy's gun was under my legs, but he was on top of me and not moving. I didn't know about bleeding chin guy, but he was scrambling to move and not making much progress. The window shattered, and the suit shrieked and then went silent. The other door was ripped open a moment later, the weight on my legs disappeared without a sound and then the other guy was yanked off of me. I moved onto my back and then sat up. The blood on my face was definitely mine, and the other guy was lying across the seat with a silencer between his eyes.

"You have four seconds to tell me what I want to know before I pull the trigger," Bucky said. He was standing in the doorway looking a lot more terrifying than I'd ever seen him. Thankfully, he wasn't looking at me. He motioned for me to climb out of the car.

"I don't know anything," the guy stammered.

"Why did they send you after her now? Why not before? What do they want her for? Where were you taking her?" He lifted his hand, and I took it so he could pull me toward him.

"I don't know. They didn't tell us anything. We were following instructions as they came."

"One."

"You should have asked the others. The one with the mic. He knew."

"Two."

"I'm just a grunt. They don't tell me…"

"Three."

"Please? Please don't?"

"Bucky, don't…" I started to say as he got me to his side. He hissed between his teeth and then jerked forward, smacking the barrel of his silencer into the man's temple. He dropped onto the seat and didn't move. I was glad he didn't kill him, but I wasn't so sure about the others.

"Can you stand?" he asked me as he stood back and helped me out onto the road.

I groaned and tried to get to my wobbly feet. He slid the gun into the holster on his ribs and pulled my hood up to block out the blood.

"You didn't kill them, did you?" I asked as I slumped against him.

"I don't do that anymore," he replied.

"Damn."

"Did you want me to kill them?" I sighed heavily, and he guided me away from the SUV. It was hard to see where he was leading me because the blood was dripping over my eyes.

"No—I'm just a little pissed off."

"Just a little."

* * *

So this chapter is probably the only one that's very very close to what I had in the old version of this story. Hahaha. And we are reaching the climax here and my stomach is IN KNOTS.


	44. Chapter 44

"Is there any part of you that isn't bleeding?" Bucky asked as he partially dragged me along the road to where he'd left a truck idling. My leg still wasn't moving very well, and it made it difficult to keep up with his long strides. He had no problem pulling me along.

"I'm not sure," I replied. "But there was much less of it before you crashed into us."

"I didn't know you weren't secured. Crashing it was unavoidable."

"Hey, no hard feelings. I was already bleeding." He yanked the truck's door open and then helped me climb up into the high seat. My legs were too short, and one was too injured.

"Were you shot?" he asked.

"Back of the leg. I can still walk, so I guess it's not as bad as it feels."

"Put your seatbelt on this time," he instructed. Then he shut the door.

I fumbled with the seatbelt. I didn't want to tempt fate again, but my hands were slippery with blood, and I was shaking. I managed to lock it into place just as he climbed in beside me. He got the truck started and handed me a rag he found on the floor. There was motor oil on it, but I wasn't going to complain.

"To slow the bleeding," he said. I reached for it, but my fingers were weak.

"I don't know where it's coming from," I admitted.

"Just hold it to the side of your head until we're far enough away for me to look at it."

"I left the kid at the gas station."

"I know." He got the car back on the road, zooming through the traffic that was building up.

"Were you following me?"

"I was following them."

"We have to go back for him."

"He'll be fine."

"Please, Bucky?"

"They're after you. Not him. The farther from you he is, the safer he is."

"I can't leave him there to worry about me."

"Johanna," he started with irritation. Like we hadn't spent more than a month apart.

But then he just sighed and turned the car around. He was driving at top speed already as he zigzagged through cars on the road. The truck was old. Even though he smashed in part of the front end when he hit the SUV, it was still running relatively smoothly. One of the tires was out of alignment so I could feel it wobble every time we hit a bump or a pothole or he had to dodge a slow car. Every jolt made me let out a grunt of pain. Finally, I couldn't hold the rag up anymore. I dropped it to my side and leaned my head against the back of the seat.

"Shit," I heard him mutter. I wanted to say something snarky just to let him know I was still holding on, but I was running out of energy. I could barely keep my eyes open, and my head felt woozier by the second. I only saw him reach for the rag and press it to the side of my skull. "I can't hold it and drive at the same time. It's a stick," he told me.

"I'll be okay. Probably."

"Probably isn't good enough for me."

"Whose car is this anyway?" I asked. I struggled to grip the rag again but couldn't get a good hold on it. I could feel his bloody fingers slip through mine.

"I take what I need," He told me.

"I should have guessed."

"Lie down. Put your head on my lap."

"What?"

"Now is probably not the best time to be modest. Lie down." He pulled at my shoulder so that I flopped against him. He propped the rag beneath my head to help with the bleeding and then moved his hand over me to reach for the gear shift.

"I've seen you naked," I reminded him. "Several times. It wasn't a matter of modesty."

"You sound delirious."

"You would too if you'd been whacked in the head and shot. Or maybe you wouldn't. I don't know how it works for you. I've seen you get blown up, and you could still walk."

"Just try not to fall asleep if you can."

"Easy for you to say."

"Just keep talking to me. Tell me about how you saw me naked."

"Pervert." He squeezed my shoulder to show me he was joking.

A few minutes later the truck jerked to a halt. He reached over me and unfastened my seatbelt. Then he popped open the passenger side door and pulled me closer.

"Get in," he said. Then he was moving me to make room for Graham. "What the hell happened to you?"

"She broke my nose," Graham explained with a nasally voice. He climbed in beside me and shut the door. We peeled out onto the road again, but I kept my eyes closed.

"I was trying to save your life, you buffoon," I muttered.

"Is she going to be okay? I barely understood that."

"She'll be okay. If we can get her to stop bleeding," Bucky said.

"Dude, she's bleeding all over you. And me. Holy fuck."

"I know. Look for another rag or a shirt or something to put on her leg. Keep it elevated." Graham picked up my legs and propped them on his lap. We were all uncomfortably cramped, but I was short enough to lie across the bench of the truck. I could feel him apply pressure to the wound on my leg, and I winced at the sharp pain.

"What happened when she left?" Graham asked.

"She fought back," Bucky explained. "Then I crashed the car."

"Smooth."

"I didn't mean to hurt her."

"No, of course not."

"I didn't hit it very hard. I thought she'd be wearing a seatbelt."

"And you seem to forget that most people don't recover like you." Bucky made a noise that sounded an awful lot like a growl.

"The only reason I went back for you is because she asked me to. I'll throw you out onto the street if you don't stop while you're ahead."

"Boys," I warned.

"Alright. Alright, sheesh," Graham replied. "Sorry, I'm just a little grumpy after getting my face smashed in by a girl with a tiny baby fist. Where are we taking her anyway?"

"Some place safe. Do me a favor and try to keep her talking. Make sure she doesn't fall asleep. Jab her in the leg if you have to."

"Gee thanks," I muttered.

"Did you catch that?" Graham asked.

"Not a word," Bucky admitted.


	45. Chapter 45

The plan to keep me awake didn't actually work. I wasn't entirely awake, but I didn't lose consciousness either. At least not for very long. Every time I started to drift off, Graham would shake my leg and ask me a question. I would open my eyes and mumble a response. But I wasn't alert until the truck stopped and Bucky pulled me out of the front seat and carried me up some stairs like a baby. I could hear Graham shuffling along after us, but I couldn't get my eyes to stay open. Bucky pounded on a door with his metal fist, it opened quickly, and then I heard another voice.

"What the hell happened?" the person asked. Bucky pushed his way in.

"Just help me get her inside," he demanded.

"Lie her down on the couch." Then Bucky sat down, keeping his arms around me. I felt someone take my legs and force me to lie down. Bucky turned my head so they could examine the wound on my head. "Who the hell are you?" I heard the voice ask as he poked at my head. His voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it.

"I'm Graham," the kid replied from the other side of the room, "Sir."

"And who exactly is Graham?"

"He's been staying with her," Bucky informed him. And then I finally registered who was talking. I knew that voice. I just needed a minute.

"Captain Russell," I said.

"Yeah, I'm here, Hayes," he replied. I laughed weakly and tried to pry my eyes open.

"Boy, I have a mountain of questions for you."

"I don't doubt that. How about we answer those when you're no longer bleeding all over my couch?"

"Right oh, Captain."

"She's lost too much blood."

"Believe it or not, she always says weird things like that," Graham informed him.

"Believe it or not, I've known her long enough to know that."

"Known me a whole hell of a long time. Haven't you, Captain?" He sighed but ignored it. Either that or I just wasn't making any sense.

"She was shot in the leg," Bucky informed him.

"I'm not as worried about it as I am the head injury," he explained. I felt him examine the wound in my hair. "She'll need stitches. If not a full exam. Get her to Stark and he can probably take care of that stuff. We just need to keep her from bleeding out."

"Hospital isn't an option."

"I can stitch it once the bleeding slows."

"Do you have the supplies?"

"I have enough. She could probably do a much better job, but I don't think she can handle it right now." He pressed something against my head, and I felt Bucky move to hold it. "You, kid. Hold this against her leg."

"Yes, sir." Graham hurried to do what he was told, and I felt him press a rag against the burning spot on the back of my leg.

"And what the hell happened to you?"

"She broke my nose, sir."

"That's my girl."

"I was trying to save his life, for fuck's sake," I argued.

"I believe it." I groaned. Russell walked off, but I could still feel Graham and Bucky.

"Why exactly did she break your nose?" Bucky asked him.

"I was trying to stop them from taking her," he explained. "They had more guns than me. So she punched me in the nose and kicked the gun out of my hand."

"That doesn't surprise me." I heard Russell walk back into the room, but I still couldn't get my eyes to open.

"Here, let me see it," he said. Bucky lifted the towel off of my head, and Russell prodded at the wound again. I hissed from the pain. "HYDRA?" he asked.

"Yes," Bucky said flatly.

"Then you can't stay here. I'll help you get her stitched up, but you'll have to leave."

"Not before I get some answers," I said.

"Sorry, Hayes. But I think your life might be more important in this case."

"Where should I take her?" Bucky asked.

"Get the kid to take her to Stark or transfer her to Rogers." They went silent as Russell cleaned the wound on my head. "Just help me get her cleaned up and stitched and take her someplace safe. It doesn't have to be with Stark or Rogers, but I can't tell how serious the injury is. She could have bleeding in her brain. She could swell. You can't take her to a hospital or back to her house. She'll need to recover for a while."

"I don't want to go back to mooching off of Stark," I said.

"I don't think you have much of a choice at this point, kid." He cleaned the blood off of my face a bit more. "You're both covered in blood. You can find clothes in the back room. Help yourselves."

"I don't need anything," Bucky insisted without moving. Graham loosened his grip on my leg.

"I'm pretty sure my nose is still bleeding," he said.

"Go get cleaned up in the bathroom." I could hear him head down the hall, and Bucky gripped my arm. The other stayed cradling the top of my head as I rested on his lap. "I'm going to start now, Hayes. Can you handle it?" Russell asked.

"'M fine," I mumbled.

"Take a deep breath." I did as he instructed and felt him jab a needle into my skull. I ground my teeth to stop myself from shouting. "You got it?"

"I'm fine," I said more clearly. I dug my fingers into Bucky's leg as he worked. And after a moment he began to pet my hair. "So can I ask you a question now?" I heard Russell sigh again. But talking might help me ignore the pain.

"Right now might not be the best time."

"Just one."

"Fine. Just the one."

"Is it Hayes or Weisberg?" He didn't say anything for a moment but continued to work on closing up the wound on my head. I didn't know how big it was, but I could feel the needle working to shut it.

"It's Hayes, kid."

"What about you? Is it Russell or Weisberg?"

"One question."

"I think I'm allowed as many damn questions as I want." I finally got my eyes to open, but it was hard to focus on him from all the blood that had dried on my face and stuck my eyelashes together. He was sitting on a coffee table before me so all I could really see was his chest and his knees.

"It's Weisberg. Or at least, it was," he told me.

"So what does that make me then? Your niece or your daughter?" He was quiet as he finished up, but he never answered my question.

"You can sit up now," he said. So I groaned and reached my hand out to touch the sutures on my head. I was feeling much more alert now. Russell grabbed my hand and moved it back down. "Try not to touch it." I finally focused on him. He looked so much different than I remembered. He'd grown a beard, and the streaks of gray in his once solid black hair were even more noticeable now.

"Which one of us is the doctor?" I asked him.

"Right now? I am. Don't touch it." I dropped my hand back into Bucky's lap and sighed. "Help me get her jeans up so I can see how deep the wound is." Bucky leaned down and yanked my jeans up toward my knee. Russell moved down the coffee table to poke at that one. "Just skimmed," he decided. "I'll bandage it, and it should be okay as long as she gets to Stark before it can get infected. What about the other ones?"

"I don't think there are any more," I told him. "Just when I skinned my knees. And my hands. And my chin. I'll be fine." He got to work cleaning the blood off of my leg. "I deserve to know," I whispered. I felt Bucky pat my hair again, smoothing it back even though most of it was caked in blood. I shut my eyes. I just wanted to be near him again, but not like this. And now I might have to lose him forever so I could be stuck with Stark in that damn tower.

"Johanna," Russell said slowly. He used the proper pronunciation like my family and Bucky. Yo-honna. "Your parents raised you. It doesn't matter where you came from."

"And where did I come from?" I asked.

"It was Beata's choice. From the moment we knew. It's what she wanted. It was never an option for us."

"Can you just say the goddamn words?"

"I forgot how cranky you are when you're injured."

"I think I'm allowed to be cranky." He sighed again as he wrapped a bandage around my calf.

"Jo," he said. He leaned back on the table, and I opened my eyes again. He was looking down at me. With eyes that were so much like mine, I hated that I never noticed. Well, at least the color was mine. According to Bucky, the shape was hers. Beata's. "You were mine for a whole wonderful two and a half hours. That's it. I have no claim. I never have."

"Your what?"

"My daughter." I nodded slowly and closed my eyes again. I didn't want to get emotional again, but I could feel my eyes watering.

"I got the box. Can't read any of the letters." He secured the bandage and sat back.

"You used to know how to read them. I taught you that. Taught you a lot of things. They took all of it. Made you—less of a threat."

"I don't understand." He sighed heavily. It sounded so much like my mom too. Like the constant sighing problem was a family trait. Now I understood why it drove my dad crazy.

"I considered letting you go when you were being discharged. I knew it would be selfish of me to put your life at risk just so I could get a chance to know you. But I figured it would also give me an opportunity to train you against them. To teach you how to fight if they ever came for you. I taught you how to read the code I used to communicate with my sister. So that someday you'd be able to read all the letters she sent me about your life. I taught you how to fight. I told you everything. And you were—spectacular, Johanna. You were lethal."

"And then?"

"They broke you." He stood up and went to clean up the mess we'd left in his minimally decorated apartment.

"Who?" I asked.

"HYDRA," he replied with his back to me. "It was my job to follow their activities. That's what our team did. We thought they were nothing more than a few radical groups. We didn't suspect SHIELD. Not then. I was selfish when I asked you to join my team. Made you go up against the people who wanted you in the first place."

"How did they break me?" He tossed the bloody towels into the trash can in his tiny connected kitchen.

"Don't know," he admitted. "Never got a straight answer. You were gone for three days. They had you, and we had some of theirs. They offered a trade and we accepted. When we got you back—you weren't the same."

"How so?"

The door in the hallway opened, and Graham stepped out. His nose and eye were already bruising and apparently broken. I felt awful about that.

"You guys should get out of here," Russell said. "They won't be far behind."

"Can you please just answer my question?" He leaned against the counter that separated the two small rooms.

"You didn't know where you'd been. Didn't know what happened. We couldn't get anything out of you. No idea where they took you or what they did to you. Except they'd torn apart your shoulder and you coughed up water for days." Bucky froze, and I pinched my eyes shut again. "You couldn't go back to work. You couldn't focus or fight or defend yourself. You retreated into your own head, and I thought the best thing for you was to let you go home to your family."

"Until you got a letter from my mom?" I opened my eyes again to see him nod once sharply.

"She said you weren't doing too well. I came to see you, brought you the knives."

"You know I was planning on killing myself, right?" Bucky gripped my arm again, and I reached my hand up to squeeze his metal fingers.

"I thought it was a possibility. Not only did you witness most of your squad die, but you also had your brain put through a blender."

"You suggested me to SHIELD." He nodded.

"Like I said, I didn't suspect them. Not then. I thought SHIELD was the best place for you. I trusted Fury."

"Fury was clean."

"I know, but not everyone was. I regret sending you to them too. Just add that to the list of regrets. It's a long list." I closed my eyes again and moved to sit up. Bucky put his hands on my arms to guide me. Then I rubbed my face.

"You know what they want me for, don't you?" I asked him.

"Yes, but there's not enough time to sit down and talk about it. You need to run. And fast. And never look back."

"Can you walk?" Bucky asked me as he stood to his feet. His jeans were soaked in my blood.

"I think I can manage. Being stabbed in the head with a needle kind of gave me a jolt of energy." He helped me up off of the couch anyway and wrapped his arm around my waist so I could lean on him. Then he hoisted me toward the door.

"Thank you," I heard him say as we passed Russell in the kitchen. Graham followed behind us.

"Do you love her?" Russell asked. Bucky paused by the door. I heard Russell pull out a drawer, and Bucky turned his head. He heard the gun before I did. "I wanted to kill you every day of my life since she left. I've thought about it a thousand times. I knew it wasn't your fault, but I used to fall asleep at night imagining all the different ways I could make you suffer. But if you love her, and you can tell me with absolute conviction that you love her, and you'll keep her safe, I won't shoot you."

Bucky didn't respond right away. I could feel him breathing slowly and steadily, but his jaw was tight. He was fast, and he probably had an advantage over Russell. He could disarm him quickly if he wanted to. But he just turned his head enough to make eye contact. And then he nodded.

"I do," he said.

"Say it. Make me believe it."

"I love her." Russell lowered the gun.

"Good. Because if you let them take her, they're going to tear her apart. Just like they did to you."

"I won't let that happen."

"They'll kill all the people she loves to get to her. They always do. And she'll beg you to let her go. And you're going to let her go BECAUSE you love her. You'll spend the rest of your miserable life regretting it."

"I won't let that happen," Bucky repeated.

"Good luck. You're going to need it." Bucky turned back around but didn't look down at me. I had a feeling he knew I was watching him and was avoiding me. He motioned toward Graham.

"We need to leave," he said.

* * *

How to Give Yourself Anxiety: An Example by Indigo Umbrella.

Sorry for the delay. I totally got distracted by a children's game and played nonstop for most of the day. Shout out to random anon on Tumblr who brought me back into focus.

Also, I totally forgot about this because my author's notes about it were in the old version of the story. But while I was working on that version of the story, I got the chance to meet these beautiful jerks (Sebastian Stan, Chris Evans, and Anthony Mackie). And I died. The end.

No, but seriously. Sebastian is like the sweetest (most gorgeous) asshole on the planet and I am blessed. (Also, totally not an asshole. He's really nice and I'M ANGRY)

(Random facts: His eyes are even more blue in person, his arms are super beefy and I know this because he put one around me and that's what caused my immediate demise, he's much taller than I pictured him, I felt like a smol child, seriously friends he is a big guy, legs for days, he's also like 1,000 times more gorgeous up close, like seriously this was my face *.*, he's super friendly, like he approached ME and not the other way around and when I said "Hi" he did that face where his eyes get all big and he looks excited and he said "Heyyyy!" and it was the beginning of the end for me, I have been updating this from beyond the grave ever since)

Also, I have pictures but I am not photogenic and only cute in mirrors apparently. I'll still share them if you want.


	46. Chapter 46

I knew we were in trouble the moment Bucky got the door open. My pink knife was jabbed into the balcony railing right in front of the door. He paused for half a second before pushing me back behind him. They descended before I managed to catch my balance. There were at least three of them in the door with guns raised and faces masked. Russell jumped out and yanked me back by my arm.

"Hayes, Weisberg, if you could just step outside, that would make this a lot easier," the one in the front instructed.

I couldn't see his face, but I recognized his voice. He was the guy from earlier. The one that wore the suit and threatened to blow Graham to pieces. I never saw what happened to him after Bucky crashed into us. I bet Bucky regretted not killing him when he had the chance.

"Stay behind me," he growled. He kept his hand out as if he would have to stop me from trying to get passed him. But his metal hand was twitching for the gun he had strapped under his jacket.

"If you let her go, no one has to get hurt." I took one step toward Bucky and Graham and Russell both grabbed me from each side. I turned to the kid. I wondered if I could shove him away and get him to safety before shots were fired or Bucky snapped.

"I'm so sorry," I said to him. "For everything." He glanced at me. He was breathing quickly and obviously scared, but he wasn't going to admit it. He never did. I hated myself for getting him in that situation.

"Don't worry about it," he replied. But his voice was dry.

The leader took a step back, allowing other agents to fill his space in the doorway. I wasn't sure how many of them there were, but I was confident they would send a lot. At least with Bucky being so close.

"Escort Hayes and Weisberg to the vans," the leader instructed. No one made a move. Bucky was still blocking the doorway. Russell still had his gun, but it wouldn't make much of a difference.

"You take one step into this house, and I'll kill each and every one of your men," Bucky warned.

The problem with that is that they were already in the house. I heard footsteps behind us, and Russell spun around to aim his gun. I saw him freeze from the corner of my eye, and I knew they had us surrounded. I didn't need to see them to know they were there.

"Drop the weapon," one of them said. He didn't move. The leader looked over Bucky's shoulder.

"Drop it or I'll order them to shoot your daughter in the back of the skull," he said.

"They won't. They need me," I reminded him.

"Fine, I'll order them to shoot your daughter's friend in the back of the skull. We don't need him." He still didn't look like he wanted to lower the gun.

"They're bluffing," he told me. I shook my head. I didn't want to risk it.

"Just do it, please?" I pleaded.

"I knew you were going to say that." He dropped the gun and kicked it across the floor. "If she gets hurt, I'm going to wait for your nose to heal and then I'm going to break it again."

"Fair enough," Graham agreed. He still had his hand around my wrist, waiting to try and wrestle me away from anyone who tried to grab me. Russell turned back around, and his dark eyes caught mine.

"I'm so sorry for bringing this on you," I told him. There was a hitch in my voice, and he undoubtedly heard it. He shook his head once.

"It's not your fault. It's his fault," he said, motioning toward Bucky. I shook my head. "You heard what he said. 'Escort Hayes AND Weisberg.' They didn't come for you sooner because they needed the both of us. Taking you was a trap. They knew he'd bring you to me."

"But—why?"

"DNA, Jo."

"That's enough of the Q&A," the leader said from the doorway. "Just get in the van and you guys can talk it all out. If you don't get in the van, we'll shoot your friend and your boy toy. Even better, we'll keep him alive and make him forget you. Maybe we'll make him kill your friend instead."

Bucky's hand twitched for the gun again. He flexed his metal fingers, calculating how many of them he could take down before one of us got shot. I didn't think it was worth the risk, and I didn't think he did either. I also knew he probably didn't care what happened to Graham or Russell, but he knew I did. And I could still get caught in the crossfire. I believed he cared enough about me to want to protect them. If he meant what he said to Russell.

I stepped forward and slid my wrist out of Graham's hand. He tightened his grip, but I turned back to him and tried to pry his fingers from my arm.

"Please?" I said. He shook his head.

"Jo, you can't," he replied.

"I have to."

"No, you don't. They just want you to think that."

"Don't make me break your nose again."

"I'm not letting you go."

"I have a plan," I whispered. He studied me for a second. I didn't have a plan at all, and I hoped he couldn't tell I was lying. But he finally relented and released my arm. I stepped away and turned to Russell, waiting for him to try and grab me next.

"Protect the kid," I instructed.

"Don't do it, Jo," he warned with a shake of his head.

I slipped passed Bucky, and he turned his stern blue eyes on mine. But then someone grabbed me from behind and yanked me out of the door.

The metal arm made a distinctly digital sound as it came to life. He took a swing, and I heard it crack against a skull. I was yanked downward onto the balcony and only got a split second to figure out where the hell I was. There were two staircases at either end of the balcony. I wouldn't be fast enough to get away, but I could draw them away if they were more interested in me than Bucky.

So while they were preoccupied with a swinging metal fist, I took that moment of freedom to bolt back to my feet. I took off toward the left, shoving another agent out of my way. A gun went off. There was shouting. I couldn't run very far or very fast, and I only made it a few feet before someone slammed into me. I hit the balcony, and my arms were being pulled back behind me.

"Get your hands off of her!" Russell shouted from the chaos.

The agent was ripped off of me. I heard the sound of his body hit a car below, and the siren began to wail. I tried to get back to my feet and made it to my knees when the leader appeared in front of me. He grabbed me by the arms and lifted me up onto my feet.

"Should have just killed me when he had the chance," he said.

Then he jerked forward, and his face cracked into mine. It was enough to disorient me, and I stumbled backward into the railing. I grabbed ahold of it and tried to regain my focus and figure out where everyone was and if everyone was okay. Or figure out how to get the guy the hell away from me. There was still fighting going on in front of Russell's apartment, and Bucky was distracted. The leader apparently decided it was enough. He marched toward me and grabbed me by the front of my jacket. He lifted me back so that I was pressed against the railing and scrambling to hold on. I tried to get away from him, but I knew if he let me go I would fall right over the edge.

"Please don't?" I asked him.

I couldn't see his face behind the mask, and that somehow made him even more terrifying. He didn't listen to my plea. He just shoved me.


	47. Chapter 47

I remembered the scent of must and decay. The cell itself was cold and damp. Water dripped from somewhere in the dark. The only light came from somewhere far off down the narrow hall they'd dragged me down. I sat on the floor. There was nothing for me to rest on. I cradled my injured arm in my lap, pressed between my raised legs and my chest. I was freezing. Everything ached. I wanted to go home.

I could see something glint off of the light from the corner of my eye. The hall had been silent for a long time. I wasn't sure how long I sat there shivering from pain and cold. I could hear nothing but the drip of a leak, the ringing in my ears, and my own occasional coughing fits that brought water out of my lungs.

"I know you're there," I spoke out loud. My voice cracked and echoed off of the walls, and I waited for a sound to confirm my suspicion. He didn't make one as he stepped forward. I could barely make him out except for the light glinting off of the metal on his arm. I turned to face him, just making out the shape of him now in the dark. "Why are you guarding me? You know I wouldn't make it very far if I actually managed to get out." He didn't speak for a moment. He stood still and silent until I scooted forward on the rocky floor and wrapped my hand around one of the rusted cell bars.

"I'm not guarding you," he finally said. His voice was low, deep, and flat. I rested my head on the bars, feeling the rust flake onto my skin.

"Can you move into the light? It makes me nervous when I can't see who I'm talking to."

He obliged and took one step to his left. There wasn't enough light for me to make out most of his features. Only that he was looking at me in what I would call confusion. His eyebrows were furrowed, but they had taken the mask off his face. He wasn't as scary without it.

"What's your name?" I asked him. He shook his head slowly.

"Why are you asking me questions?"

"It's good to be the one to ask questions for once. Don't you think?" He still looked confused. "Never mind. You work for them. Doesn't look like they give you a lot of chances to ask questions." I saw the light glint again as he gripped his fingers into a fist. "Why do you have metal on your arm?" He looked down at his hand now and stretched out his fingers. It didn't look like he knew how to answer that question either.

"It is my arm," he said.

"Is it like a prosthetic?" He didn't answer. He just kept staring down at his hand as if it was the first time he'd ever actually thought about it. "How did you lose your arm?" I asked. He looked back up at me and then took a step back.

"I don't know," he said. He spoke quietly. So that I barely heard the words.

"Were you a soldier? Like me?"

"I don't know," he repeated in the same whisper. I sat up straighter.

"You don't know," I stated. He looked between the hand and me. "Has no one ever asked you these questions before?" He shook his head slowly.

"I'm not usually asked to bring people in alive."

"Asked or told? What happens if you don't do what you're told?" His spine went straight, and he dropped his arm back to his side. What I could see of his face went blank as he masked whatever he was feeling. Or pretending to feel.

"I know what you're doing," he said in the same flat tone. "You can ask as many questions as you want. You won't remember."

"What are they going to do to me?" I asked him. He didn't answer. He stepped back so that I lost his face in the shadows again. I dropped my head onto the bars and sighed heavily. "I just wanted to know your name," I said.

"Why?" he asked.

"You tried to take my life. I thought it was only fair if I got your name in return."

"They didn't want me to take your life." I shut my eyes and slipped my arm through the bars so I could lean on it. I was exhausted but in too much pain and much too cold to sleep. "You know where to find what they're looking for, don't you?" he asked after a long pause.

"Yes," I admitted.

"Then why won't you tell them?"

I lifted my head to look at him again, but I couldn't come up with an answer. He stepped forward, and I raised my hand. He looked as if he didn't know what to do. But then he moved his hand and pressed his fingers against my palm. They were cold and solid, and he slid them up my hand to the tip of my finger.

"It's you," he stated. He had his eyes on my hand, but I tried to memorize his face. His eyes were light. I couldn't tell what color in the dark, but light enough so that I could see them when the light from down the hall hit his face. He didn't look so scary anymore. Or maybe I'd just given up.

"Why don't you go and tell them?" I replied. He looked back at my face, and his eyebrows furrowed again. I could see that he didn't plan to tell them anything.

"They'll torture it out of you," he said as he took his hand back. I dropped mine but left it hanging through the bars.

"I expected that."

"I don't want to torture you."

"Why not?" He stepped back again. His feet were silent on the stone floor.

"The water," he said. "I know what it feels like." I wrapped my hand around the bar as something occurred to me.

"They didn't send you here to guard me," I noted. "You came here on your own."

"Observation," he said as he slipped back into the shadows.

"Why?"

"You saw me."

"You were wearing a mask."

"That's not what I meant." I could see him turn, and I knew he was planning on walking away. I sat up to watch him go, but he disappeared into the dark.

"What's your name?" I repeated before he could get too far.

"I don't know," he admitted.


	48. Chapter 48

The surface beneath me jolted with a metallic crunch and broke me out of my daze. I felt someone lift my head in their hands as they slid their fingers around to the back of my skull. One of the hands felt smooth and hard. I pried my eyes open, but it was hard to focus on his face. I could see him hovering over me as he checked the back of my head.

"I knew it," I told him as he slid his right hand out from under me and touched his thumb to the smear of blood my head left on his fingers. "I knew you didn't want to hurt me."

"What?" he asked. But he shook it off so that I couldn't explain if I wanted to. "I need to get you out of here. Can you move?" I didn't even try. I shut my eyes again. My head was swimming. I didn't even know for sure where I was or how I'd gotten there. I was on top of a car. I knew that much. But I didn't remember falling. Everything hurt. From my head to my feet.

"I can't," I told him. He took a deep breath and shifted as he crouched next to me. The car moved beneath us, and grass cracked under my head. "Where's the kid? Russell?"

"I don't know. I lost sight of them when you went over."

"Just watch out for them. I'll be okay." He moved my head toward him. I opened my eyes again. He looked back at me with his eyes pinched in concern.

"You're bleeding," he told me. "Again."

"I'll be fine."

"I'm not leaving you here. I'll come back for them when you're safe." He moved to lift me but just lifting my shoulders off of the cracking glass made pain shoot through my body. I cried out, and he immediately froze.

"Don't move her!" someone shouted from above. Their faces were hazy and dark as they peered over the balcony. All I could see were masks. "Or the kid goes down next!" My fingers gripped into the front of his jacket. I was making more sense of what was happening, and I was fairly sure that something was broken. Either my spine or a hip or both my legs. I couldn't tell. Just that the pain was unbearable and I didn't think I could be moved.

"Just go!" Graham yelled from above. I was glad to hear his voice even though I regretted bringing him into this. I gripped Bucky's jacket tighter, and he moved his head back toward me so that his jaw scratched along the side of my cheek.

"Just get him out of here," I instructed. He shook his head.

"I can't," he said. "You heard what he said, if I let you go I'll regret it for the rest of my life."

"Russell will come with me. They want him too. He'll protect me."

"It's not enough."

"You know them better than anyone. You can find me. You can still get out. Just take the kid and run."

I could hear them coming down the stairs at either side of the balcony, surrounding us again. The brief window we'd had to run was closing. I knew that Bucky could get out on alone. He might be able to get Graham out too. But there was no way he'd be able to carry me out of there and still defend us. Not without someone getting hurt.

"She's going to bleed out before you ever get her to Stark," someone was telling him. It was the leader who'd shoved me over. I recognized his voice through the mask. Bucky lifted his head again, but I pinched my eyes shut and tried to steady my breathing. Just holding onto him was excruciating and it was taking everything I had to not scream or cry. "That's only if her spine isn't broken. The only way you can make sure she keeps breathing is to let her come with us."

"I'll find a way," Bucky growled.

"She'll never forgive you if the kid dies because you refused to let her go." Bucky pulled me closer and slid his arm beneath my knees as he prepared to lift me and bolt. No matter how much pain it caused me or how much damage it did.

"I don't care if you never forgive me," he decided. I gripped him harder, and my sharp intake of breath forced him to pause.

"Bucky—please?" I begged.

His arm slid out from under my legs. He pressed his hand against my face, and I opened my eyes again. It was still hard to focus, and my head felt woozier than it did before. But I could make out his face; so caring and concerned. He wasn't a monster, and he never had been. Even when they got in his head and made him kill. He never wanted to be, despite what he said about enjoying it. I'd seen what he looked like when he was out for too long and beginning to make sense of things. When he made a choice for himself.

"I can't," he said. He still looked concern, but there were other emotions on his face now. Not concern, but desperation. "They're going to break you again."

"Remember what we talked about? You gave me something to hold onto."

"It's not going to be enough."

"It was for you." He wrapped his arm around me again, almost as if he was refusing to let me go. But it took the strain off of my shoulders, and I no longer had to fight to breathe.

"You," the leader said from the other side of us. "Go get her. He'll give her to you." Bucky's head snapped in their direction. His breathing grew heavier and I could feel his heart pounding in his chest. But he made no move to fight whoever was approaching. I could hear footsteps on the gravel, and then someone reached over me to grip his shoulder. They weren't wearing black like the others. It was Russell.

"Listen to me," he whispered. "Do everything I tell you to do and we can make sure she gets out of this alive and unharmed. I won't let anything happen to her."

"You think it's going to be enough? You know what they want to do to her."

"I think it's the only chance she's got. It's the only chance any of us has. Do what she says. Stand back, get the kid, run. I won't let them pull her apart. You have to trust me." Bucky looked back down at me, but he still looked desperate and reluctant to trust Russell.

"They're not going to let us walk out of here," he said, but he wasn't talking to me. Russell gripped him again, and I could feel his other hand at the top of my head.

"No, but you have a much better chance of making it out with the kid than you do with her."

"You expect me to just walk away?"

"They'll kill the both of you if you don't. And they'll still get what they want from her. Only she won't have a lot left to fight for."

"I don't care." He looked back at Russell.

"She does. And she's going to need that motivation." Bucky took another deep breath. "Trust me," Russell said. I didn't think Bucky would, but his grip on me loosened, and then he turned his eyes back to mine.

"I'll find you," he told me.

"Sokovia," Russell whispered. "That's where they'll take us." Bucky moved to allow Russell to hold me, but he didn't let me go completely. I kept my grip on his jacket to make him listen.

"Your notebook," I said. "I wrote something."

"I know," he told me. "I saw it. I was right."

"Yeah, you were."

"I meant what I said to him."

"I know." He leaned forward and pressed his lips to my forehead. Then he let me go and reached across me to grab the front of Russell's sweater. The movement jerked me, and I winced.

"If she isn't Jo the next time I see her, I'll do what I should have done when I found you in the woods all those years ago." Russell nodded once.

"I won't fight you," he replied. Bucky looked back at me and ran his thumb over my cheek.

"Just—keep fighting," he said. "Don't let them get in your head."

Then he jumped off of the car. It jolted again, and Russell pulled me back into his arms as they swarmed us. I couldn't see where Bucky or Graham was through all their guns and bodies. I didn't hear anyone fighting. I didn't hear anyone shooting. I just hoped they were getting away.

"Get her in the van," the leader instructed as he jabbed Russell in the back with the barrel of his rifle. Russell slid his arm under my knees.

"This is going to hurt," he warned me.

"I know," I replied.

He lifted me up, and my whole body exploded with pain. I held onto him and bit my lip to stop myself from screaming and drawing Bucky back, but I wasn't successful. Russell carried me away from the car, and each step jolting through my broken bones. After a moment, I managed to find my voice.

"You don't have a plan, do you?" I whispered through clenched teeth. "You have no idea how to get me out of this."

"I had to get him to let you go," he told me quietly. "You said you needed something to hold onto, right? Wouldn't have done you any good if he and the kid were both dead."

"Do you think he's going to get away?"

"No," he whispered. I could hear the doors of a van slide open as he walked toward the sound. "I also knew he wasn't going to just walk away. He's going to get the kid to a safe distance and then he's going to double back. I knew he would fight, but this was the only way I could keep everyone alive."

Someone helped him move me into the van. The process was painful, and it took a few minutes just to get me down onto the floor. Russell knelt beside me and took off his sweater. Then he tucked it under my head and leaned over me to adjust it.

"Just do everything I tell you without question and maybe we can get you out of this in one piece," he instructed. "Trust me."

"I always did," I told him.


	49. Chapter 49

The only thing that marked the time was the temperature. Sometimes my cell was so cold that my body ached. I would curl into a ball on the floor and hold back tears. I had to be strong. Even if it was just to piss them off. But sometimes the cold would be a little more bearable. Still freezing, but not painfully so. Or maybe I was just getting used to it.

The light never changed. The hall remained dark and silent except for the single light down in the tunnel that gave me just enough to see my darkened surroundings. Just like before, I didn't hear him when he approached, but I knew he was there when I noticed the glint of metal in the dark. He didn't waste time watching me. He walked right to my cell and slid a cup of water through the bars at the bottom. I jumped right up. I'd had enough water to last me, but since most of it had gone into my lungs, I was dehydrated. I reached for the cup as he stood and watched.

"Why are you bringing me this?" I asked him.

"Why do you ask so many questions?" he retorted.

"You're the first person I've seen in hours. Days maybe. What else did you expect?"

"You talk too much." I gulped down the water, enough to spill it over my face.

"Never heard that before," I said when I stopped to breathe. He stayed where he was, watching me silently through the bars. I emptied the cup and set it back down by the bars. The water tasted metallic and stagnant, but it was better than none at all. He made no move to pick it up. "They send you here or did you come on your own?" I questioned.

"They sent me," he replied in that same flat tone.

"Why?"

"You're no use to anyone dead."

"Well great. Now I can look forward to freezing to death instead of dying from dehydration."

"You're cold," he stated. I nodded sarcastically.

"Just a tad," I replied. "But you know, I'm also starving, in a lot of pain, uncomfortable, and still bleeding. So you have to pick and choose, right?"

"I've never done this before."

"Done what?" He kicked the bars, barely nudging the cup with the tip of his boot.

"They've never asked me to do this before."

"Why am I so special?" I asked. He looked down at me like he was trying to find the answer to that question too.

"I don't know. I did what I was supposed to do. I've been awake too long. I thought they would have…" He trailed off and didn't finish his thought, but he was thinking. "Why do you talk to me and no one else?" he asked me.

"Voice maybe. You're the only American I've encountered here." He moved his head just slightly to the side as if I'd said something odd. I'd heard him speak to them, but not in English. He spoke Russian to them, sometimes German. But when the conversations were in English, mostly for my benefit, they spoke with thick accents. But not him.

"That's not it," he said. "They cut you open, held you underwater, and you didn't give them what they wanted. You told me without question."

"Now look who's asking questions. Feels good, doesn't it?"

He took a step back and looked up to into a dark corner of my cell. It was too dark there for me to see, but I was pretty sure I knew what he was looking at. They were watching us, and he wasn't supposed to be asking questions. I leaned forward on my knees and gripped a bar with my one good hand.

"You don't want to be here," I stated. He looked back at me again. His eyebrows knitted. His expression was dark. "I can see it on your face. I saw it before—when you were holding me by my hair."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He turned to walk off, but I pressed my face between the bars.

"I think you do, Sergeant Barnes." He froze and turned sharply.

"What did you just say?" he asked.

"You think I'm just giving away information? To the man who helped torture me? What makes you think I'm not exactly where I want to be?" He didn't move. "I wanted to hear you say your name. It's James, in case you were telling the truth about not knowing. James Barnes. No, they called you something else. Bucky." He was in the shadows now, but I could still make out the form of him. The set of his shoulders was tense and imposing. He looked dangerous again. Like he would lash out at me if I continued.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"A few decades ago, you watched my mother throw herself off of a bridge. You never wondered what they wanted her for. You probably don't even remember her. I can only imagine the things that you see when you close your eyes. I know that they made you kill. My mother knew all about you, James. So you want to know why I'm asking you so many questions or I who chose to talk to you after what you did to me and my squad? I needed to confirm you were really him. James Barnes. Steve Rogers called you Bucky. Do you remember him?"

He finally marched forward, he knelt down to my level, reached through the bars with his metal hand and yanked me forward. He slammed my face into the bars and brought his face close to mine.

"You're lying," he growled. I smiled.

"Am I?" I asked.

"You're a spy."

"They didn't just send you after her because she had something they wanted. She had the ability to tell the whole world about you. Want to know why she jumped off that bridge? So you didn't have to kill her. She didn't want you to have her blood on your hands. Because James Barnes was a good man." He gripped my shirt harder and pressed my face against the bars. I'd lost my balance, so my wounded shoulder stung on contact with the cold, rusted bars. I winced, and he seemed to like that.

"I'm not him," he insisted.

"Not anymore," I agreed. "But you could be."

"Why did you need to confirm I'm him?"

"I needed to prove you had no memory."

"Why?"

"He wants to set you free." He released my shirt, and I righted myself.

"Why?" he repeated.

"Because it's what my mother wanted," I explained. He leaned forward and wrapped his hands around the bars.

"They're never going to let you walk out of here with that information. Even if it's true. Neither of us will remember."

"Unless you get me out of here," I suggested. He stood up, and I watched him.

"What makes you think I'm not exactly where I want to be?" he asked. Then someone started clapping from the hall where the light came from. He stood back as the other man approached. The one who'd instructed him to hold me underwater.

"Bravo," the man said, clapping his hands together. "Excellent work, Corporal. Not a butterfly after all. A sly little fox." He turned to Barnes, who was now standing back, still and silent as he waited for more instructions. "You've done well, Soldier," he said. "You can leave." Barnes turned to leave, following orders without question. I didn't believe for a second that he'd been acting. He was a soldier, an assassin. He wasn't made to manipulate his targets. He was trained to kill, not to lie. My words got through to him, but I didn't know how long he'd be able to hold onto them.

"You can still go free, James," I said as he retreated. "Remember what I said. James Barnes is a good man. He's still in there. I know it." He didn't come back from the shadows.


	50. Finale

"She needs medical attention," I heard Russell telling someone. I couldn't stay conscious once they moved me into the van. I was losing too much blood, and I couldn't keep my eyes open.

"She'll be fine," the leader said from outside. Russell moved my hair back off of my face. "Where's the Soldier?"

"He's gone, sir. Should we go after him?"

"The kid?"

"Gone too."

"Let them go. We got what we came for."

"He'll come back for her, won't he?"

"The kid is in bad shape. We'll be long gone by the time he makes it back." My eyes finally shot open, and I reached for the front of Russell's shirt. He was looking out beyond the doors, observing everything that was taking place outside.

"What did he just say?" I asked as the doors slid closed and rocked the whole van. He shook his head slowly.

"The kid," he replied. "I didn't see what they did to him." I dropped my hand. My chest felt heavy. My eyes filled with tears.

"No, no, no," I muttered. "This is all my fault."

"I'm sure he'll be okay. Barnes won't let anything happen to him."

"Unless he comes back for us." He shook his head again.

"He won't abandon him."

"He can't stand him. You actually believe he'd help the kid?"

"I do. Yes. He didn't trust the kid because he reminds him of Steve," he said. "But I think we've now determined that he wasn't a setup. Barnes won't let him die now that he's gained his trust."

"When did he say that about Graham?"

"He found me a few weeks ago."

"He didn't tell me."

"Didn't really have the time." I shut my eyes again. The image of trees flashed through my mind. They were cold and frosted. It was another memory pushing into my head as I moved between consciousness and sleep.

"I should have just left him at the gas station. Bucky wanted to leave him there. I should have listened to him," I muttered, pushing the intrusive memories aside. I knew my mind was trying to tell me something, but the guilt was overwhelming.

"It's not your fault, Hayes," he replied. "He'll come back for you once the kid is okay."

"It won't matter if he comes back," I told him.

"It does matter. They can't get into your head if you have something grounding you."

"Why did they come now? Why not before?" He took a deep breath. The van was moving now, and I knew we weren't alone. There was no way we weren't being overheard.

"They needed us both. They know Barnes will track you if the Avengers don't come first. They'll have to act quickly. And they didn't have any idea where I was until he led you right to me. They set a trap, used you as bait, and he fell for it. Love makes people—distracted. They don't think clearly."

"How did they know he would take me to you?"

"Lucky guess. They figured I might stick close by. He wouldn't take you to a hospital if you got hurt. He'd have to take you to someone he knew wouldn't hand you over."

"And why do they need you too?"

"We're both just pieces of the same puzzle, Jo. Need all the pieces to finish it."

"The pieces for what?"

"They had Beata create something. A weapon. It was before she knew who they were. Before she found out about Barnes. It came in three parts. She died before phase two. I'm the only one who can enact phase three." I opened my eyes again. He was still crouched beside me as he watched the front of the van, keeping his eyes on whoever was there. I couldn't move my head to look.

"What happens if you give them the wrong piece?" I questioned. He shook his head slowly.

"Not really sure. She never got it passed phase one. Might not even work as it is. But according to her, if there's a mistake, if anything is done incorrectly, it can alter the acidity of the subject's blood. I promise her explanation was much more scientific, but to keep it short and simple—it would be like turning someone's blood into acid and letting it eat them alive from the inside."

"How do I fit into this puzzle?"

"She knew what they could do with it if it got into the wrong hands. That's why she built it in three parts. She made it with her own DNA so they could never utilize it on a larger scale. But that also meant it could be used on her. Phase one had already been started when—we found out about you. Phase one is a dormant genetic pathogen. Beata had no family. You're the only person left who could be a carrier."

"So you'll give them what they want."

"I wasn't aware I had a choice." He looked back down at me. It was so obvious to me now that he was my mom's sister. They had the same eyes. The same hair color before hers turned gray, and his was headed in the same direction. They even had the same lines on their faces.

"What if I want you to give them the wrong piece?" I asked. He shook his head.

"I won't do that." I shut my eyes again. I felt another flash of memory. The feel of metal around my waist. The same burning cold as the memory tried to force my attention away. It felt important, but I couldn't focus on it yet.

"I knew before, didn't I? I knew who you were, what they wanted. I knew about Bucky."

"I had to tell you. That's what we did. We were tracking them. I needed you to understand the risks. You made the choice on your own. They didn't want you to remember."

"You wanted to set him free."

"Beata wanted to set him free."

"But you did for her."

"Everything I've done is for her. And you. I knew he was a victim. I hated him, yes, but helping get him free felt like a better justice. It's what she would have wanted."

"You sent me in there. To confirm it was him and that he couldn't remember who he was."

"No. I prepared you for that possibility, but I did everything I could to prevent it from happening. I knew if there was ever a chance they did get their hands on you, you had to be ready to do what you needed to do."

"I didn't remember it when you got me back," I stated.

"No, you didn't remember anything. They took very specific memories. They didn't want you to know you were mine or what you'd been doing. They made you forget years of training. Made you afraid of guns."

"Why?"

"So you couldn't be a threat to them anymore. They needed to keep you docile. Needed you clueless. They couldn't risk you doing what Beata did and taking yourself out before they could use you. Probably knew you'd be willing to sacrifice yourself for some greater good."

"Why didn't you try to fix it? To make me remember again?"

"Believe me, I did. Then I sent you to work for SHIELD. You pushed yourself away from me. Remembered even less the next time I saw you. I'm surprised you even remembered I was your Captain. You sure as hell didn't remember I was your father."

"And you didn't suspect SHIELD?"

"I started to once I figured out how much damage had been done to you while you were with them. But there wasn't much I could do. I had to be careful about it. It could get you hurt. I knew if I stayed away they wouldn't be able to fit all those pieces together. By the time I was able to take action, SHIELD had fallen." I shook my head and felt the pain ebb out from the back of my skull.

"Why didn't you just abort me from the start? It would have saved all of us a lot of unnecessary suffering."

"Wouldn't have saved Barnes, though, would it? Don't think I didn't try to convince her. You probably don't want to hear that, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't want it at one point. Regardless, there would still be physical genetic material that could be abused. She wanted you to have a life. She thought the best course of action would be to give you a chance to live."

"Right. Hunted all my life."

"Our goal was to keep you safe. It was the only way we could ensure that you couldn't be controlled. I think your childhood went alright. My sister and her husband did a better job than I would have done." I took a deep breath. I still had a thousand questions, but it was hard to remember them. It was hard to keep my mind from wandering back to that snowy forest.

"Why'd they send him after me in Malibu if they didn't have you yet?" I asked, forcing myself to concentrate on the present.

"I can answer that," someone said from the front. I tried to move my head again, but it hurt too much. I just recognized his voice. It was the leader. The one with the suit. "That was just meant to be an execution. His. Not yours."

"Barnes?" Russell asked.

"He's no longer useful to us. But now we have a better plan to get rid of him. We're going to make you do it." Russell looked back down at me.

"There's too much good in you, Jo. Don't let them get into your head. This is why we wanted you to have a life. They can't control you if you have something to hold onto. You can fight it," he insisted. "Look at Barnes. They were never able to erase his identity. He was unstable from the start. You think this is the first time he's gone rogue? The first time he made choices independently of them? He always started to after a while. That's why Beata wanted to help him. I think that's why you wanted to help him too."

"Why'd they have him shoot me? They wanted him to kill me," I said.

"Because we knew he wouldn't do it," the leader told us. "That was a test to prove he was compromised." I took another deep breath and tried to move my hand to rub the ache out of my head, but I was too weak to get very far. My hand dropped back to my side. Russell reached out and squeezed it.

"They've already controlled me before," I reminded him. "They got in my head and made me kill. Having good in me won't matter if they can control my mind."

I shut my eyes again. Exhaustion was taking over. I could feel the memory of Bucky's arm around my waist. His whispered words in my ear. "Run," he'd said. I just couldn't place the memory. But something in my mind was telling me to pay attention. That's what all these dreams were. My mind trying to force me to listen to what I ignored when I was awake.

"Killed who?" Russell asked, snapping me out of it.

"Our squad," I reminded him. "The whole team."

"My team? What makes you think you killed them?"

"I remember shooting them. Tran first. Then Carlson. Then Jimenez. That's all I can remember, but I know I killed the others too." He was silent for a few seconds. Long enough for me to fight the urge to be pulled back asleep by the rocking van and excruciating pain. When I opened my eyes, he looked very confused.

"We were both there when Tran got hit. He was taken out by a sniper. The others got hit by the same guy; before I managed to get him off his perch. That's why I made you run."

"I remember lifting my gun. Pulling the trigger. I put it on you first." He shook his head.

"You didn't even have your gun when Jimenez went down, Hayes. It was yards away; dropped in debris when you got shot. There's no way you could have got Jimenez. Talbot confirmed you were unarmed and even if you weren't, you wouldn't have had the strength to fire."

"You shot me. I saw you. To stop me from killing anyone else."

"Me? I didn't shoot you. It was the sniper. I managed to knock him out of his perch once I found him. Didn't faze him. He went right for you. I wasn't fast enough."

"Then why do I remember it that way?"

"They were in your head for a long time, Jo. If they could take things out, I'm sure they could put things back in."

"No, this didn't start until after SHIELD fell. They weren't in my head anymore." He pinched his lips and sighed. Then he sat back off of his knees and found a more comfortable position on the hard floor of the van.

"I've seen this kind of thing before," he said. "It's common in soldiers. Remembering things differently. Remembering them killing their friends. We call it survivor's guilt."

"But I remember so clearly. I can see it when I sleep. I saw the color in your eyes."

"You can't trust dreams and memories. Our minds never remember things exactly. It's possible your brain was just trying to make sense of the guilt and the real memories at the same time. Mixed the two. It was right before you got taken. Your memories had holes. Your mind was trying to fill them."

"But—I know exactly how they got control. I remember trying to fight it. I remember feeling something in my head." He shook his head slowly again.

"That's not how I remember it, kid."

"Then who was it? The sniper?" He stared at me for a long moment as the van gently rocked beneath us.

"You really haven't figured it out?" he asked. I tried to shake my head, but the movement just made me feel woozy. "What was the one thing they wanted you to forget? Besides me. Besides Beata. What else did they want to keep hidden?"

"Bucky." He nodded.

"Barnes was the sniper, Jo. He shot you."

"That's not true."

"It is true. I had the best team in the world. You think I would have sent you into the field if I didn't believe you could handle it? You think I would have sent you up against HYDRA if I didn't believe you were capable of fighting them? We didn't have Avengers back then. I was their biggest threat. My team. You. He was their most efficient killer. He could get all of them in one mission."

"He hit me in the shoulder. He never misses. It couldn't have been him." I wanted him to be wrong, but I could remember it more clearly now. The moment Jimenez ran for me as he shouted for me to get out of the courtyard. "They're coming," is what I thought he'd said. But that wasn't it. "He's coming," is what he said.

"His mission wasn't just to wipe out Russell's team," the leader answered from the front of the van. "He had an objective. We needed your captain alive. We needed to find his child."

"You didn't know it was me. Not until later," I tried.

"No, but the Soldier failed. He didn't get his target. So we told him if he couldn't get your captain, we wanted one soldier for questioning. He chose you."

"But why?"

"Well," he started. "He was told to bring back the Captain's favorite. Whichever soldier he seemed closest to. Whichever one he protected more than the others. Regardless of gender or rank. But I like to think it's just because you were the prettiest member of your unit. A little butterfly caught up in a war."

I pinched my eyes shut tight, and Russell swept his hand over my head again. The stitches were still sore, and the back of my head felt like it had been kicked in. I could already feel it bleeding through the sweater he stuck under me like a pillow. Every part of me hurt. Not dull tolerable aches, but sharp jabs of pain.

"We found you in the woods," Russell murmured. The memory came back. The cold. The trees. My shoulder aching with that same sharpness deep inside. There was an arm wrapped around my waist, dragging me as I slipped on wet foliage. "Do you remember how you got there?" Russell asked. I focused on the memory. On the sound of my breathing, the metal gripping me tightly, pinching into my skin and forcing me to move.

"Run," he'd said as he pushed me forward and I stumbled into frosted leaves and twigs.

"Why are you helping me?" I'd asked. He stepped back and away from me. I could remember the sound of his boots crunching through fallen leaves.

"You don't remember," he stated. "They already got in your head." I turned to look at him as he moved back away from me.

"You're not coming with me?" I asked him. He shook his head slowly.

"I don't deserve to go free," he said. There was shouting somewhere off in the woods. Someone was calling my name.

"Why are you helping me?" I repeated. He looked into the trees and back at me.

"You saw me."

"I don't understand. I don't know you." He shook his head and stepped away.

"That's what they want you to think. But you saw. You looked right at me. Like I was—someone. James Barnes."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Who's James Barnes?" He did another glance toward the shouts echoing through the woods.

"They'll come for you again. Run. Follow the voices." Then he took off back into the trees. I didn't know why he was helping me. I didn't have any idea where I was. Just that I was cold and in pain and scared.

"Johanna!" someone called through the trees. The memory of Russell's voice brought me back to the present. I opened my eyes again and stared up at the black metal ceiling of the van. Russell was sitting beside me with my hand clutched in his, but he was staring at his feet.

"It was Bucky," I whispered. "Bucky got me out."

"That was all you were able to tell us when we found you," he confirmed. "Didn't know where you'd been, for how long, or why they let you go before we could settle the exchange agreement. Just that he got you out. A guy with a metal arm, you said. You thought his name was Barnes. When I went to see you in New York—you couldn't remember anymore. That's what made me suspect SHIELD. Your therapist at the very least. I gave you the book to lead you to where you needed to go. I couldn't risk anyone overhearing."

My chest felt heavy again. And I finally understood why Bucky came to me instead of Steve. Why we'd been so drawn to each other. Why we trusted each other so quickly and so easily. Neither of us could remember, but some part of us knew we'd helped each other before. Even if it was just briefly.

It wasn't imprinting after all. Bucky came to me first because I once told him who he was and he thought my life was worth something. I felt safe with him because he'd saved me once before. HYDRA didn't let me go. Bucky did.

* * *

I wanted to post this earlier but I re-watched Cap 1 and 2 and then it was time for Civil War.

It was AMAZING.

So happy. And honestly. (No spoilers) I'm really glad I waited to post this after watching it. Because like... it gave me some ideas for my sequel. Like actually... there really isn't anything I want to change from my original idea for the next one. Except for a few minor details. But uh... I was really nervous about this chapter and that final reveal (me and my goddamn cliffhangers) but after seeing the movie, I'm glad I made Bucky the way I did. And it gave me a lot of confidence about where I want to take Jo and how my Bucky correlates with MCU Bucky.

ANYWAY. I'm so sorry for another cliffhanger finale. But the next story will hopefully answer all of the questions and things that have been left out. I really didn't want the story to go passed 3 stories total. BUT... Civil War, man. Maybe it can lead into my epic showdown combo story I wanted to do.

So I hope you guys liked it. And I'll get that epilogue up soon. If not tomorrow then at least within the next few days.


	51. Epilogue

My childhood bedroom looked exactly like I remembered. My mother never went through the process of changing it when my sister and I moved out. Even though she was doing pretty well for herself as a PR specialist in New York and lived with Tony Stark in a penthouse. We all knew she was pretty much set for life, if not through the relationship, then at least through the gremlin they were in the process of creating.

My mom left the room for me. I moved away to DC and bought my own house, but she knew there still might come a time when I needed to go home. She could have easily converted the bedroom into a guestroom. She could have exchanged our twin sized beds for one larger one, or maybe done away with all the memories of us as children. But she didn't. Waking up on my twin sized mattress on polka-dotted sheets was a little jarring. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the band poster Clara had hung over her bed before she went off to college.

The second most jarring thing about waking up in my childhood bedroom was that I wasn't wearing any clothes. But I was alone. I sat up, holding my neon pink and green comforter to my chest and looked around at all of the memories. I never slept naked. At least never in that bed. And I certainly never slept naked when I was alone.

The memory rushed into my head as if my mind was supplying the answer for me. The third most jarring thing about waking up in my bedroom completely naked was that I hadn't been alone when I fell asleep. We fooled around like two sneaky teenagers until I couldn't handle it anymore and yanked his clothes off. We barely fit on the bed together, and my mother had let us go with a strict rule for him to take Clara's bed. He never touched it. He slept the whole night with his feet hanging off of the edge of my small bed. He kicked the laundry basket and banged his arm on the wall every time he moved.

I could hear laughter carry up the stairs. The whole house already smelled like cooking food; baking turkey and maybe even homemade rolls. I wasn't sure how long I'd slept in, but I knew my mom would probably be irritated that I hadn't come down the stairs with Bucky. I climbed out of the bed and hurried to find my clothes before anyone could see me through the open curtains.

I followed the sound of their voices down the hall to the stairs. I could hear Stark cracking jokes and making my dad laugh. It was a hearty chuckle. I knew exactly what his face looked like and the way his belly would jiggle when he laughed like that. What I didn't expect was the other chorus of laughs that followed along. I could hear Russell right alongside my dad. And then my mind supplied the answer. He'd come back with me so that we finally got a chance to spend a holiday together as a family. No more secrets. My biological father and my adopted father, having a good laugh in the living room.

There were other laughs too. An easy going one that must have belonged to Graham. Sam's was loud and mischievous. Steve's was light but heartfelt. And then the other one. Short and quick. Bucky.

They all came home together. To put their differences aside to be a family. I made it to the bottom of the stairs and looked in on the scene. The entire group of them was sitting around the coffee table, going through a box of pictures. Tony and Bucky, right there beside one another. Graham poking fun at Bucky and not getting threatened. Sam and Steve making fun of my childhood pictures. Everyone I loved all there in the same house.

We worked everything out. Everything was perfect.

"Oh, there you are," my sister said as she stepped out of the kitchen like she was looking for any excuse to be free from one of my mom's cooking lessons. "We were beginning to wonder when you'd wake up."

"Sorry. I guess I had a long night." She glanced in the direction of the living room.

"Yeah, I bet." My mother stepped out beside her. She was already wearing her best clothes and had done her silver hair in curls. She wore an apron to keep food off of her dress since she just couldn't wait to put it on.

"Morning, honey," she said with a smile. "Could you do me a favor and get the cranberry sauce out of the garage? I forgot to grab it."

"Yeah, of course. Is it with the other cans?"

"Yep. No one likes it anyway. So we might as well get the cheap stuff."

She turned back into the kitchen, and I headed for the garage. I took a minute to locate the can and then returned to the house. But something felt off. The house was quiet when I came in through the dining room. The TV was off. There was no laughter. No clanking of pots and pans in the kitchen.

"Mom?" I asked as I stepped forward, but no one answered. Bucky was standing in the doorway, blocking the living room from view. "Bucky?" I questioned. "Where is everyone?" He had his fists clenched at his sides. Blood dripped from his metal fingers and onto the floor, creating a pool of scarlet at his feet. Panic flooded me. I jumped forward and shoved him out of the way.

They were all exactly where I'd left them. The men in the living room, Clara in the kitchen doorway, my mom in the kitchen. But there was blood everywhere, and no one was moving. Everyone stared blankly ahead. Clara was lying the closest to me. She was flat on her stomach in a pool of her own blood.

That's when I started screaming. I dropped to the floor, splashing in all the blood. I could hear him approach from behind me. I listened to the sound of his metal arm starting up and his boots tapping in the trail of blood that had soaked into the carpet. Then his cold metal fingers wrapped around my face, smoothing my screams in his palm. He held a knife in his other hand. One of the good ones my mom always saved for special occasions. He twisted it in his fingers and then jerked it back toward my throat.

I choked on air and pulled against the restraints that were holding me to a table. A girl stepped away from me. I couldn't make out the features of her face in the darkness, but her eyes shimmered crimson from the shadows. She stepped back toward the men who'd brought her to me. I could see her hair illuminated by the light behind her.

"She's afraid," she said. She had an accent. Just like my grandmother's. I could place it immediately.

"Yes," the man told her as he gently patted her shoulder in comfort.

"What did you do to me?" I asked as I tried to get free of the metal straps that were holding me down.

"I showed you your future," she said. They pulled her away, leading her back out so she could rest. Then I was in the dark, breathing heavily, trying to work through the haze she'd left on my mind.

"What did she show you this time?" a voice asked from the shadows. Russell sounded exhausted and lazy. He was wounded and suffering. It was the kind of voice a person made when they were barely conscious.

"The same thing she shows me every time," I whispered. "I saw him—killing everyone."

"It's not real," he reminded me.

"I know."

"Sooner or later—you're not going to believe that anymore."

* * *

*Sings and dances* Another cliffhanger! Because I thrive... on... suffering... *Jazz hands*

Sorry for taking so long to get this up. I was kind of on the fence about it a bit because it doesn't fit with this current plot and I wanted to be sure of the direction the next one was taking before posting it. Also, my tarantula died and I feel awful about it because my mom kind of gave her back to me without warning and I didn't have enough time to get her a proper heat source. So going from San Diego to Idaho (where the temp can't figure out if it wants to be freezing or warm and goes up and down constantly), she just couldn't hang with that in her old age. :'(

RIP Borris.

Um anyway. I've been working on the next story already. I don't have the full plot worked out yet, but I think that's a good thing. I'm just starting with a vague idea and going chapter to chapter like I did with the last two. I have 5 chapters written already, as well as a prologue (6 in total). So I think it's working out okay and I decided to go ahead and put the epilogue up because this plot is still relevant.

So once I have it figured out I'll post the story title here.


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